


Revenant

by aureliu_s



Series: The Dragonborn Era [6]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Civil War, College Dropout, Consensual Sex, Depression, Diary/Journal, Dubious Morality, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Bonding, Family Feels, First Love, First Meetings, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, High King Ulfric Stormcloak, I'm Bad At Titles, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Journal Entries, Loneliness, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Mental Anguish, Mental Instability, Miraak Lives (Elder Scrolls), Modded Skyrim, Moral Ambiguity, Moral Dilemmas, Morally Ambiguous Character, Multiple Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, No Smut, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, One Night Stands, Other, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Pansexual Character, Past Violence, Post-Skyrim Civil War, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Skyrim Civil War, Pre-War, Self Confidence Issues, Sexual Tension, Sexuality, Shouting hurts, Skyrim Civil War, Song Lyrics, Soulmates, Storytelling, Thu'um (Elder Scrolls), Twins, Werewolf Culture, Werewolf character, both pre and post canon lol, dragonborn is a werewolf, main character has no self preservation, miraak isn't as big an ass as he could be award, possibly lyrics in some chapters, some sprinklings of first person POV, songs as chapters titles, story told in multiple parts, this fic is really just me fucking around
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 131,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25700356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aureliu_s/pseuds/aureliu_s
Summary: The long awaited tale of Tharya—before Miraak. Picking up moments after she kills Alduin, stretching through her involvement in the tumultuous Civil War, and ending with the daring rescue of the First Dragonborn from Apocrypha, this is the account of the years on her own, told directly from Tharya's own lips.Elderly dragons with centuries of wisdom, merciless leaders vying for power, and a single, unexpectedly handsome villain—what could possibly go wrong?{DISCLAIMER: revenant continually explores themes of sexuality, gender in society, mental health, race, and violence. there will not generally be warnings chapters, barring potentially upsetting content, as these are ongoing themes.}{updates once weekly}
Relationships: Aldis & Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin Family, Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Miraak, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & Original Character(s), Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Miraak, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Teldryn Sero, Female Nord Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Miraak, Galmar Stone-Fist & Ulfric Stormcloak, Miraak & Vahlok the Jailor, Miraak (Elder Scrolls)/Original Character(s), Ralof & Ulfric Stormcloak, Sanguine & Dovahkiin, Teldryn Sero & Original Character(s)
Series: The Dragonborn Era [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1444504
Comments: 23
Kudos: 17





	1. Dramatis Personae (Act 1)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iunara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iunara/gifts), [TheWolfWhoWaited](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWolfWhoWaited/gifts), [BlueFlamesofGod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueFlamesofGod/gifts).



_**DRAMATIS PERSONAE (ACT ONE)** _

_Aldis_ _\- A childhood friend of Tharya's, who has become her best friend despite their long periods of separation; the captain of the guard in Solitude._

_Anari the Healer_ _\- Tharya’s mother, who works at the Temple of Kynareth in Whiterun. She wields a peculiar type of sympathetic magic that allows her to understand and know people by just looking at them; very adept in restoration._

_Avulstein Gray-Mane_ _\- Son of Fralia Gray-Mane and brother to Thorald, he and Tharya are merely acquaintances until she travels across the province to help him free his brother from the Thalmor._

_Jarl Balgruuf the Greater_ _\- Jarl of Whiterun, he is responsible for helping Tharya capture Odahviing and directing her to the Greybeards early on after they called for her from High Hrothgar._

_Celann_ _\- A Vigilant of Stendarr (who later joins the Dawnguard) who meets Tharya in Dawnstar while looking into the reports of continuous nightmares plaguing the city._

_Erandur_ _\- A Dunmer Priest of Mara, formerly a follower of Vaermina, who helps Tharya and Celann find the cause the nightmares in Dawnstar._

_Danica Pure-Spring_ _\- A Priestess of Kynareth who tends to the temple and the Gildergreen, both located in Whiterun. Years ago Tharya went on a quest to revive the Gildergreen, for which Danica still thanks her._

_Fjurkin Sun-Sword_ _\- Tharya’s father, and Anari’s husband. A full-blooded Imperial who deserted the Great War and ran away to Skyrim, specifically Whiterun. A bright, funny, and charismatic man, he now works for the Companions._

_Fralia Gray-Mane_ _\- Mother to Avulstein and Thorald, she is constantly at odds the the Battle-Born family over the whereabouts of her missing son Thorald, leading her to ask Tharya for help in finding him._

_Freana_ _\- Fjurkin and Anari’s oldest child (29 by the 17th of Last Seed 4E 201). She is practical and a hard worker, and owns a farm in the western plains with her longtime partner Ionnja._

_The Greybeards_ _\- A group of elderly men living in seclusion in High Hrothgar, a monastery on the Throat of the World. They are masters and students of the Way of the Voice, and aim to assist the Last Dragonborn in as much as they can through teaching. They are at odds with Miraak, the First Dragonborn, whom they refer to as “the Abuser”._

_Jaree-Ra_ _\- An Argonian conman in Solitude who enlists Tharya to help in one of his schemes._

_Jorstus Dawn-Shield_ _\- The second oldest child behind Freana, he is reserved, smart, and currently courting a Redguard serving girl named Ramia. He is part of the Whiterun cavalry, though sometimes runs jobs with his father._

_Lilika_ _\- The youngest of the Sun-Sword family, who does not make an appearance in Part One but is featured in **Sic Parvis Magna** as secretly working with a rebel organization. _ _She is studying to be a bard in Solitude._

_Lofrek_ _\- Tharya’s twin brother; together he and Tharya are the second-youngest in their family. Lofrek still lives in Breezehome with his parents as he struggles to find a direction in life. The grumpiest sibling._

_Miraak Althëasson, present_ _\- The First Dragonborn and last surviving Atmoran. An extremely talented mage, scholar, and swordsman, he was rescued from Apocrypha by Tharya and has not left her side since. As word of his existence quickly spread after the events of_ **_Sic Parvis Magna_ ** _and_ **_The Blue Star Break_ ** _, he is gaining recognition through Tamriel, though he disappeared with Tharya two years ago._

_Paarthurnax_ _\- Dragon ally to Tharya and leader of the Greybeards, Paarthurnax was once Alduin’s top lieutenant. He now lives in seclusion at the top of the Throat of the World, where he assists the Dragonborn whenever he can and teaches other dragons the Way of the Voice._

_Sanguine_ _\- Daedric Prince of debauchery, dark indulgences, and as he says, fun. Responsible for the Night to Remember quest, after which he and Tharya forge a long-lasting friendship for years to come. Not always the greatest friend though, being a Daedra and all._

_Tharya, Act 1_ _\- The Last Dragonborn who has just recently returned from Sovngarde after slaying Alduin, the World Eater._

_Tharya Throne-Breaker, present_ _\- World-famous for her acts of justice and exploration, unseating Ulfric Stormcloak, and sealing the Blue Star Break. Credited with somehow bringing High King Torygg back to life. Disappeared two years ago and has not been seen since._

_Thorald_ _ Gray-Mane \- Brother to Avulstein and the "lost" son of Fralia Gray-Mane, Thorald was captured by Thalmor forces and taken to Northwatch Keep. The Battle-Born family first planted the notion of his death. _

_High King Torygg_ _\- Slaughtered in “ritual combat” by Ulfric Stormcloak prior to 17th of Last Seed, 4E 201. He and Tharya meet in Sovngarde in 4E 202, and forge a lifelong friendship that continues after his revival in_ **_The Blue Star Break_ ** _(4E 404)._


	2. FOREWORD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic may only say it's gifted to three people, but really it's gifted to anyone and everyone who has ever helped me on my skyrim writing journey, and sat through my endless ramblings and questions, and helped me discover these characters in every way possible. that includes readers, commenters, people who leave kudos, anyone who let me use their LDB in the blue star break, anyone who has ever brainstormed with me or given me ideas, beta-read, or simply offered kind words and support. iunara & thewolfwhowaited have merely been the most influential in this adventure, and to them i offer endless thanks. blueflamesofgod has never failed to make me laugh or cry or smile with their lovely comments, and more often than not i have reread them when i feel lost. thank you all.

_Welcome, weary traveler. Why not rest while I spin you a tale?_  
  
_Kidding! It’s only me. Though, I’m not sure we’ve ever had the chance to chat—third person, fourth wall, lazy writing, all that. Miraak’s here too, brooding somewhere a couple feet behind me, but you should know as well as I do that he’s not much of a talker. Unless he’s drunk, which is also hit or miss, because being the extreme lightweight he is his type of drunk really depends on the mood he was in while sober._

_But anyway, as much as I could talk about that guy, I’m here to talk to you! Have you really read this far? What a long and overblown series. Unless you haven’t read the series yet, which you probably should just in case; not like this work relies on much of it, being all about me, but you know. It explains Miraak. And probably a couple other things. But I dunno, I haven’t read it myself._  
  
_Anyway, right: I’m here to give you some background before we begin. It’s been, I think, two and a half years since the Blue Star Break and all that mess, and let me tell you, it’s been a fun two and half years. For one, my brother Lofrek and I bought a little house in Riverwood. Well, not **in** it, across the river from the sawmill, more or less. It’s called Vandfald Cottage, though I’m not entirely sure who named it that or owned it before us. We—General Beefcake and I—spent the winter there, and yes, Lofrek and Sofie were with us. Miraak got sick for the first time in four thousand plus years and gods he is SUCH a huge baby about it. Like, your sinuses hurt, sure, but is that an excuse to be a little snot about everything? Didn’t think so. He got over it, but he still thinks I neglected him that week. I kept telling him he was weak and wouldn’t survive the winter. _

_After the snows stopped coming and Miraak was no longer suffering at the hands of a sinus infection and my apparent neglect, we decided to travel again. Strangely enough, winter still held on, even if the snows stopped; we think it’s because of the Dragon Break. The seasons were all messed up the year after that, and I think still may be a little screwy. Mr. First Mage says the stars are also a little messed up and “the sky is scarred”, but may be going back to normal very soon, which hopefully fixes the seasons and weather too. But first we went to a place called Revakheim, in the mountains near Windhelm—AKA the Dragon Forge, where the Skyrim Dragon Priests had their masks and robes crafted. There was a tiny Dragon Break there too, a little baby one, and at first that was worrying. After a couple days studying it and the place, though, we decided it was kinda like the Time Wound: dormant. It had the ability to transport you through time (we also found a clay mask in Revakheim like the wooden one in Labyrinthian that transports you to gods know when) so we spent a good few days exploring the place as it looked in the Mythic Era, and Miraak tried to fashion a mask but he’s a shit blacksmith, which is no surprise to any of us, right? Anyway, we ended up with no masks but a couple of pretty nice sets of robes, custom-made for the tallest man on Tamriel, and kept the place a secret for now. Stars—couldn't do it—not this year._

_After that we visited Gelebor! He must be so lonely. Says he’s been combing through the libraries in the big white castle place trying to find any account of where some other Snow Elves may be hiding, or even a way to reverse what’s happened to the Falmer. I think he’s got a couple solid leads, so I hope they work out. Turns out the Bow **did** return to him after we used it against the Dawnguard, which is probably good; it’s not entirely safe with me or Miraak, or wherever we could possibly leave it out in the world. He gave me a couple books on some lost school of magic created and perfected by the Snow Elves called heliomancy, basically just harnessing the sun’s energy for...magic stuff. It’s difficult for me, but we are making slow progress. It’s impossible for Miraak, probably because of any taint lingering in his body, or the fact he’s missing parts of his soul (did you know about that? I only just learned last year, this poor man), or the whole thing with his Voice being raw destructive power, not like mine. _  
  
_Yeah. Sometimes I feel bad about that. Really bad. Good going, Akatosh!_  
  
_But in the last year, I worked with the College of Winterhold (shocking, since they more or less kicked me out though I can’t really blame them) to fund an expedition to Yokuda. Though the main island sunk, and a couple of the others, a few smaller ones remain. Surprisingly Yokuda is the one thing on Nirn Miraak doesn’t know a lot about, despite Jondor (ew) being from there—I pestered him enough one day and he said his father being kind of a shithead more or less turned him off to Yokuda. Understandable. I think he enjoyed it, though, because if we can’t get to Atmora, we can at least get to one place he considers a part of...home._  
  
_Akos Kasaz is the name of the main island, sunken. The other sunken ones are Kanesh and Samara, and the island Yath broke into a couple pieces, some sinking, some staying afloat. We spent close to a year on Yath with Onmund (poor kid and I got sunburned like nobody’s business), Brelyna, a couple scholars, and a friend of ours named Bhijirio. He won’t be making an appearance here, but it’s important you know about him. He’s Kharjo’s cousin, and came to Skyrim looking for him, and consequently looking for me. He spent the two years with us, and actually just left a few days ago, returning to Elsweyr because of the Thalmor stirring shit up there. Of course._  
  
_But Yokuda was fun, despite the sunburns, the beaches there were literally pristine and amazing. The ruins (though not really ruins? A lot of places are still very much intact, and we even found a few scattered colonies of Yokudans still on the island!) were beautiful. I swear on the Divines, Miraak and I filled **books** of writing about whatever we could gather from the places we went. I also managed to pencil a few maps, which the College has lame copies of while the originals are...in a safe location (yeah, my backpack, currently.) We also fought some giant snakes, that wasn’t fun, and nearly died in a couple crazy, possibly magical sandstorms. _  
  
_Worth it. Forget that part about Yokudans though, Miraak just very sternly reminded me they wanted to be kept a secret._  
  
_Anyway, that’s that on that. Those are our last two years, just so you’re all caught up. Lazy writing, not penning those stories out? Probably. But hey, this story is also cool. Speaking of this story, we should probably get it going...well, it starts here, I guess, making the grueling climb up the Throat of the World, the sun setting directly into my eyes, Miraak probably about to complain about something, (he says he isn’t but I can **feel** it coming, trust me), and the wind getting colder as the day of the 25th of Frostfall, 4E 207, draws to a chilly close._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> both vandfald cottage & revakheim are amazing mods you should definitely check out, and i do NOT own them in any capacity!


	3. I. Journey's End (Act 1)

**_And the Scrolls have foretold, of the black wings in the cold,_ **

**_That when brothers wage war come unfurled!_ **

**_Alduin, Bane of Kings, ancient shadow unbound,_ **

**_With a hunger to swallow the world!_ **

* * *

BEGINNING OF ACT ONE: THE WANDERER

* * *

He stared warily at her backpack, weighing his options before turning away from it.  
  
It was only a tent. He could set up a tent.  
  
_Listen, there’s really no shame in using written directions. I spent a whole ten minutes writing these out for you, so would you please use them?_  
  
No, no, no. He was Solstheim’s First Mage, a High Priest of the Dragon Cult, the First Dragonborn, a vampire slayer, a scholar, the strongest mage in Tamriel, probably Nirn, _definitely_ the oldest man alive, no longer the last surviving Yokudan, unfortunately, but certainly the last surviving Atmoran, a sealer of Dragon Breaks, and, most recently, a world traveler and defeater of magical sandstorms.  
  
And he, Miraak Althëasson, could set up a tent without reading the directions. 

Very quietly Miraak stepped away from Tharya’s backpack—where the hidden piece of paper taunted him endlessly—sparing her one last glance where she sat on the large stone emblem. It had a curved shell around it with an open front to display the etched tablet, and was nearly as tall as her. He would let her meditate in peace, with her spear lying across her knees. And besides, he’d seen her set up a tent thousands of times. How hard could it be?  
  
Tossing his head to let his hood down he unclipped both bedrolls from their respective backpacks, pausing only to finger the Gauldur amulet hanging off Tharya’s. Still, Miraak had no idea how she’d come into possession of such a thing, but she seemed to have a knack for finding priceless, powerful relics that could quite possibly be cursed and in this case, taking them as jewelry. The bedrolls were set on the thickly packed snow that seemed to never melt this high up on the mountain, a little ways away from Tharya, and he went for the tent next. Couldn’t possibly be hard enough to read directions for. No.

Occasionally he checked over his shoulder to see if the Last Dragonborn had stirred. This stake went here, no doubt, and this pole here—weigh this side down with that—and no, Tharya wasn’t done yet. The other stake surely had to go here, and then this pole went like this, fold this flap back, hang that unlit lantern here. Little snap of the fingers, a little flame, and the lantern came to life. By the time he was finished the sun was below the horizon and the slopes of the Throat of the World had grown dark and cold; Tharya had stopped them a few hours earlier to eat more or less the rest of the food they’d packed, and said if they could make it to the fourth emblem by nightfall the journey tomorrow would be smooth sailing. Well, they had reached the fourth emblem, and he had yet to read this one and correct its poor and generally inaccurate storytelling as he’d done the first three. But it could wait.  
  
“Damn, it got cold pretty quickly,” Tharya stood and stretched her arms above her, yawning as she did.  
“The day was not warm to begin with,” Miraak replied, crossing his arms loosely. She nodded and muttered _true_ before wriggling one foot under her spear, tossing it up with her toes and catching it one hand. Her eyes then fell to the tent and lingered in mild surprise before he huffed. “I am not so poorly versed in survival skills that I do not know how to set up a mere _tent._ ”

Tharya held up her hands in a placating gesture, yawning again. “Hey, I didn’t say anything, big man.” No, but she didn’t need to. She crossed the frosty snow between them, boots crunching, and planted her face against his chest with a sigh. 

A cold wind blew down from the top of the mountain and scrambled down the rocky cliffs, rustling what few snowberry bushes chose to grow on the isolated slopes and tugging at his robes. Winter was definitely approaching, if not here already. Miraak peered up at the stars. After many sleepless nights of observations he had managed to discern exactly where Mnemoli had scarred the heavens, but that, like the erratic seasons and weather patterns, was fading. By Saturalia or even his birthday he suspected most traces of the Blue Star Break would be all but gone. Most traces, except for the confusion in people’s minds, and the years of history that had been indescribably muddled by Mnemoli and the Break. That, he knew, would never heal.

That and Tharya’s newfound ability; after the Break had been done away with she’d retained some part, some miniscule sliver—anything larger would surely have much more dire consequences—of Mnemoli’s influence. It had taken some time to refine it, but now, very nearly on command, her eyes returned to that unnerving state of undulating blue and she could once again view the world in its raw, celestial form. He still didn’t know what to make of it, but like her lycanthropy, it had helped them on more than one occasion. That only seemed to conflict his feelings further.  
  
“Oh, gods. It’s bedtime,” she said around a third yawn, turning her cheek to his chest and putting her arms loosely around him.  
“I am not a bed,” he replied, pinching her sides. “Go rest, _elskavin_ .” Isn’t that why he set up the tent?  
“You’re just as good as one,” she jerked away from his fingers, before lifting off and slapping his wrists away. “Maybe better. Though beds don’t...” she imitated him by straightening her fingers and jabbing his sides. “You know who does that? Dads. That’s a dad thing to do.” Miraak grinned down at her, grabbing her hands. “Dads also are never ticklish. They _also_ make horrible jokes that no one likes—so you’re basically a dad, Miraak. Except you’re missing the pudge.”  
“Who, pray tell, could I have fathered to gain such an illustrious title?” He grabbed her waist and pulled her back towards him, leaning down to meet her determined upwards stare.  
“Runa,” the Last Dragonborn lifted a finger to point at the sleeping Vale sabre cat not far from the tent, between it and the emblem. Ah, of course. _Runa_ , as they called her, had been a gift from Gelebor, one of the first Vale kittens to be born in decades, from his understanding. At only a year and a half old she was not yet at her largest, though it was fast approaching, but already Miraak had given up on trying to carry her around.  
  
“Gods preserve whichever human woman birthed _her_ ,” he snorted, examining the lean, ebony-coated sabre cat for a moment. Tharya smiled before prying herself away, twirling her spear on her fingertips. He watched for a moment as she trudged in a circle around the tiny camp, stamping hard enough to send her feet through the layer of frost and create deep footprints. Then, with a magelight hovering over her shoulder, she went about drawing wards in the snow, just outside the circle of footprints. Each faded only a few minutes after it was drawn until there was nothing to be seen. Runa lifted her head from her paws to examine the work before trotting sluggishly over to Miraak, twisting between his legs—something she thought she was still small enough to do comfortably—and curling up again just in front of the entrance to the tent. There was no fire, since there was no wood readily available, but the night was not so cold that it would be unbearable. At least, he wouldn’t be cold, and Tharya wouldn’t be either, and that was all that mattered.  
  
“Staying up?” Tharya stopped beside him again, freeing a hand to stroke his lower back and gazing up at the sky. Miraak nodded, humming lightly.  
“ _Geh,_ once more. I believe the heavens will be fine, with some more time,” eyes trained on his stars as they began to appear in the sky, one by one, he watched them wink into existence. “But I need to be sure.” The Star Charts weren’t with him, but his years as First Mage, the training, and the knowledge had not left his mind. With one arm around the Last Dragonborn he bent to kiss her, _almost_ feeling a shiver touch his spine when her cold fingers glanced his neck before sliding into his hair. Almost. “Do not wait for me.”  
“Who, me?” She smiled against his lips. “Never.”

* * *

_The sand was biting her skin, thrashing the soft parts of her neck and cheeks, creating hundreds of thousands of tiny cuts all screaming and burning and bleeding in unison. No, not another sandstorm. They’d barely survived the last, and then they had all been clumped together. Now she was wandering alone into the fray, beating at the wind with useless hands, her spear very nearly being torn out of her grip with each gust. But where was everyone? They had been just behind her, Miraak barking directions at the scholars, Onmund and Brelyna clinging to him. But even Miraak couldn’t weather this. He’d spent days after the last one washing the sand from his hair and eyes. As Tharya was sure she would, if the wind and sand kept up like this._

_But it was cold. The air around her was freezing, the wind even moreso, and the sand—she couldn’t tell if it was even sand, the way it resembled icy snow in a blizzard. Only the monotone brown-beige of the blurred sand around her told her she was still in the desert. If not for that, she would’ve thought she was caught in Winterhold in the height of the snow season._

_She tried calling out for someone, him, anyone, but the wind swallowed her words and the sand cut her tongue until it, too, stung. It was no use. None of them would hear her, not through this storm and the shrieking, hot, dry wind._ _  
_ _  
_ _But it was cold._ _  
_ _  
_ _Tharya found it within herself to trudge onwards. Maybe not a good idea, but she didn’t know what to do in sandstorms, as a Nord who’d spent her life in only Skyrim and Cyrodiil. Sandstorms were lost to her. If she could go just a little further, maybe Brelyna, maybe one of the Bretons would be there. Even one person was better than being alone. But no, her dovah was pulling her another way, searching in the blind confusion for its other half, roaring aimlessly into the void. She willed herself to shut up. Even if Miraak was close, he would be hard pressed to get to her, and-_

_Still, it was cold._

_Cold, cold! Why? Why in Shor’s name was it cold in_ **_Yokuda?_ ** _A nation of deserted desert islands, where the scenery hardly changed, and all she had fallen asleep to at night was sand dunes and all she had woken up to in the morning was the same sand dunes. Endless, this desert was. Endless as a bottomless pit is bottomless, as expansive as the sky. Her dovah cried out again, and she realized it was bringing her eastward, at least she thought it to be east. Her right. She thought it was east, and if there was one thing she learned it was that she could trust her dragon soul to always lead her somewhere. Somewhere, she hoped, that wasn’t-_

_Cold._

_Wetness thrashed her neck and chin, soaking her skin. What was that...blood? Was she bleeding? Had the sand really cut her so much, so deep? Tharya lifted her fingers laboriously to her neck and then pulled them away, shielding her eyes and doubling over herself to get a glimpse of her hand in the blinding sandstorm, and seeing only-_

With a gasp she sat up, and the strange sensation disappeared from her neck and jaw. Hurriedly the Last Dragonborn felt the side of her head and her shoulder—Shor’s crown, it was _freezing_ —and sucked in a sharp breath when her fingers came away clean, if a bit sticky. A gentle tap to her elbow and she jumped again, this time twisting to face...Runa.  
“Hey, cutie,” she cooed hoarsely, voice shaking as she reached for the sabre cat’s head and ears. Strangely enough, Runa felt warm on both sides but cold along her spine and back. She leaned in to lick Tharya’s neck again, making a worried noise and scooting closer, resting her chin on the Nord’s shoulder. “What’s wrong? And _Divines_ , why is it so-”  
  
There was moonlight dancing and reflecting on the snowy ground around her, and the egg-shaped emblem not far away, and the section of the 7,000 Steps they’d camped beside for the night. Moonlight...moonlight? Everywhere? She could even make out Miraak’s figure, hear his slow breathing. Moonlight. But the tent, the tent should...  
  
She looked up. There was no tent.  
  
With a groan, Tharya fell back onto her bedroll. Runa snuggled up beside her, intent on staying warm herself. The cat’s weight was welcome, but her clear view of the stars in the twilight sky above was baffling. Miraak had set it up, hadn’t he? Unless that had been part of the dream too? Dread settled in her stomach. What if it was? What if something horrible was going to fall out of the sky? What if the stars would disappear again, and Mnemoli would return, or hell, even Hermaeus Mora would appear, tentacles reaching, stretching...  
  
Miraak grunted sharply when she reached one leg out of the warm confines of her bedroll to kick him, and mumbled something in his sleep—bastard had been an impossibly heavy sleeper the first year out of Apocrypha, but she thought, or hoped, he was not so bad now. Whatever he mumbled, it was half-incoherent and half-Atmoran. Neither of which she could understand. The ground crunched as he turned over and laid one arm out, the woven mat below them frozen solid and creaking under his hand.  
“ _Elskavin?_ ” He was hardly awake.  
“Miraak,” she said calmly, stroking the soft fur between Runa’s ears, “where’s the tent?”  
  
Slowly the First Dragonborn seemed to come to, and then he mumbled again. “Go back to sleep, _elskavin_ , you’re...” a yawn. “Dreaming.”  
“No, I don’t think I am,” she stared up at the moons. Just the fact that he replied to her was a small comfort; it _wasn’t_ a dream, if Miraak was up and conscious enough to say something. “Where’s the tent?” Only then did Miraak bother to open his eyes, and after one look at the sky he bolted upright.  
“The tent,” he echoed, “where is the tent?”  
“Exactly what I was just asking you,” she tried not to sound bitter. “Any ideas?” Runa purred and drew closer as a pitched wind picked up and blew across the mountainside. Tharya shuddered. Miraak was staring blankly up at the sky. “You _did_ set it up, right?” She already knew the answer to that question.  
“ _Geh_ .”  
“And you used the directions, right?” She suspected that the answer to this one wasn’t hard to guess. There was a long silence, and she watched the Atmoran lower his head in the pale light. The wind blew again. He didn’t shiver, but goosebumps ran up his arms. “Alrighty then,” much to Runa’s displeasure, Tharya jumped to her feet, shoving her boots on. “Let’s get a move on, since the tent is probably blown halfway down the mountainside and I’m not waiting around to get frostbite _again_ .”  
  
Guiltily Miraak roused himself enough to get dressed—Tharya had no idea how he slept in underwear year round, and how now, outside on the cusp of winter, he only wore pants—and sulk into his robes, pull on his boots, and give Runa a mopey pat. Tharya had already rolled her bedroll and taken the lantern out of where it had landed in the snow a couple yards away, on the very edge of the mountain. The little door had been broken clean off its hinges, and Miraak watched as she repeated the motion he’d done hours before: snap of the fingers, a little flame, place it inside the lantern and let it burn. It was magical, of course, and thus required no candle or oil to run off of, so a magic flame worked perfectly. The frost had stuck to his staff and scabbard, but they both came up off the frozen mat with a tug. Cautiously Miraak lifted the mat to roll it back up-

And it snapped in half.

He stared at both pieces in his hands and immediately felt Tharya’s gaze on him. If there was one thing he would never get used to, it was disappointing her. Times like these, things like this, even the smallest, most insignificant things, reminded him that he was a man four thousand, five hundred years out of his time, out of his era. He did not always enjoy being a nearly seven foot tall obelisk of muscle and scarred skin, and more often than not the knowledge of his displacement hung heavily in his gut.  
  
Beside him, Tharya laughed into the night. _Laughed?_  
“What did you think would happen, dummy?” She smacked his arm playfully, shaking her head and smiling. “That thing’s frozen solid,” the Last Dragonborn took one of the pieces from him. She wasn’t...upset? “No worries. I’m sure we can buy another, or, hell, I could try my hand at weaving.” Tharya peered up at him and then reached for his cheek, turning his eyes—rapidly growing equal parts vacant and confused—down on her. “Hey, no need for the sad puppy face. None of that _man out of time_ stuff, alright?”  
“The tent,” he grumbled.  
“Well...yeah,” she sighed, looking out over the edge of the mountain in the dark. In the eastern sky the twilight was lifting ever so slowly, the very first shreds of dawn seeping into the fortress of stars. “I’m kinda _mad_ about it, but not _at_ you. Not a lot. It’s okay to swallow your pride once in a while, big man.” Tharya patted his arm and tucked the frozen mat half under her shoulder, grabbing his gloved hand. “But it’s no reason to beat yourself up, just a tent. Hell, it was old anyway, I need a new one.” With a tug he was following her back onto the path up to High Hrothgar, following the curving trail of icy steps lit only by the moon.

The wind picked up the longer they trudged on, and just before dawn they had reached the fifth emblem; slow progress, but it’s not as if they were in any hurry. Runa plodded along tiredly a few yards behind, following the sound of their crunching footsteps more than anything. When the sun finally began to rise from the east the Throat of the World blocked most of its light, bathing everything on the western slope a dim, muted yellow. As he and Tharya continued upwards the air grew colder but the wind died under the encroaching daylight.  
  
“So,” she said, breathless by late afternoon, “we can either keep going into the night, or...maybe try to sleep,” she eyed the frozen ground. It was thicker here, and she noticed a while ago even Miraak’s feet hadn’t been able to sink through the frost-covered snow. “We’re at...the seventh emblem, looks like, and there’s only really two left. The tenth is right at the steps of the monastery,” Tharya peered up at him for his input, watching the way he ran his hand loosely through his hair. “At this pace, it would take us maybe til...midnight? Maybe a little slower in the cold and dark.” Runa pushed between them and Miraak crouched to pet her, flicking bits of frozen snow off her fur. “But we could also eat a huge dinner at High Hrothgar, if I have any will left to cook with. Plus the Greybeards set up a bed for me in case I ever wanted to come back.”  
“In case you ever wanted to join them in seclusion and pacifism,” the Atmoran rolled his eyes, letting Runa lick his cheek. Tharya rolled her eyes right back. “We can keep going on.”  
“Can you feel your toes?” She almost envied the way he blinked owlishly up at her. 

“ _...geh_ .” And then, after a moment’s hesitation: “Can you?”  
“Kinda. Just making sure,” Tharya rubbed her hands together and then shoved them under her arms. “No repeats of Fort Snowhawk, please.” Miraak patted the sabre cat before standing again, his knees crackling. She saw the curiosity in his eyes and quickly turned away from it, shame stabbing into her gut. He’d ask anyway. He always did, and she never told him.

“What do you mean?”  
  
Tharya tried hard to make it seem like the question didn’t reach her entirely, and not that she ignored it. She didn’t ignore people, especially not _him_. She knew he was thinking of asking again but didn’t, he never did, and she felt his eyes watching as she tapped her staff a few times and the spear tip lit like a magelight. Another heliomancy trick from the books, or from Gelebor. Her weapon was blessed by Auri-El, variant god of Akatosh, and a strong associate of the sun; the night or the missing sunlight would not impede her ability to do magic, as long as that holy half-weapon remained in her grasp.

The little golden circle lit around them spread in about a two yard diameter from the center, illuminating equal parts of the path ahead of them, the mountain on the one side and the cliff on the other. Without further pause Tharya took the lead again, and this time Runa stayed close to Miraak’s knees, maybe hoping to soak up some of his warmth as they went on.

Once again the evening passed and the sun set to their left, and the light from Tharya’s staff became the only guidance in the night. It began to snow. Briefly he thought of the trudge up the mountain to Revakheim; that had been more than dreadful, with knee-high snow and bitter wind, and by the time they had gotten to the ruin they were both cranky and frozen stiff. Absently Miraak wiped a gloved hand over his face to make sure his eyelashes didn’t freeze again, and to swipe off the snow clinging to his beard and numbing his jaw.

When the moon was high above they rounded a slow corner and then the darkened, looming figure of High Hrothgar filled her vision. The monastery seemed bigger on the outside, with its rising tower at the forefront and the two wings spanning outwards to the left and right. Its grey stone all but melded with the black mountainside, and if not for the pristine white snow that fell and clumped on the tower and roof to create a faint outline of the building, they would’ve never found the place in the dark. Runa lingered with Miraak when he didn’t immediately follow her up the steps, spurring the Dragon Priest into action. Tharya held the large door open for him and then began to drag it as slowly shut as she could, hoping perhaps it would be quieter that way. But the metal door shrieked and screamed and squealed horribly as it inched closer to the threshold, and then rattled shut with a resounding _boom._  
  
“Well,” Tharya yawned, “so much for that.” She peered around in the dark before gesturing him onwards, past the small main chamber and through the large meeting room—where she pointed out to him on their previous visit, she had sat Ulfric and Tullius down and put a hold on the Civil War only so she could travel freely across the province to stop Alduin. There was another doorway in that room which led to a wide hallway that seemed to span the length of the monastery, though sectioned off by bends in the architecture to create the illusion of separate rooms. Tucked against the stone wall was a double bed with navy blue covers and a fur throw draped over it for the winter. Despite Tharya having not been in High Hrothgar in nearly three years, it looked clean, and there wasn’t much dust on it. A wardrobe and a small desk tucked against the left wall, beneath a window, and a short bookcase to his right. Miraak grimaced at it. “You can get situated, if you want. I have to find the kitchen again to make something, I’m starving.”  
“Your clothes are wet and cold,” he noted, “remove those first.”  
“Miraak, please,” she said seriously, “save it for the bedroom.”

He stared at her for what seemed to be the millionth time in two years and watched as she laughed.  
  
“I’m _kidding_ , big guy, it won’t hurt you to smile.” Tharya shook her head. He was still so stoic; _that_ would probably never change. The process of removing robes and cloaks and shirts was difficult, but the boots were the hardest, packed in with snow, their fur linings wet, the leather stiff and metal, if any, so cold it burned. They found various surfaces to drape their clothes over so they would hopefully dry overnight. Tharya lit the few sconces that dotted the open room and then warmed some water in the nearby basin. Just as he was patting his face dry she was off in the search of the kitchen, and once again he followed. It didn’t bother him as much anymore, following.

“Looks like Klimmek made a supply run,” she murmured as she scoured through the pantry. “Ooh, looks like they have salmon. How do you feel about salmon? We could make a glaze, cut up some leeks, boil potatoes...” As usual she roped him into cooking with her, though he complained he was not nearly as adept at it as she seemed to be. Runa waited eagerly nearby and was quick to fight for anything that fell to the floor or was sneakily handed to her. High Hrothgar remained quiet even as they went about their work, though she knew Miraak couldn’t care less if he woke the Greybeards or not. After some time Tharya leaned back against the counter to watch him very carefully chop leeks, one downwards motion of the knife at a time.

  
“Do you really want to know about the war?” She asked in a worried voice, wringing her hands in front on her lap. He raised an eyebrow. “It’s okay to say yes.” _But really, please don’t_ .  
“Then yes,” Miraak replied with a slow nod, still focused on cutting, “I know very little of your life before me. But I would not push you to tell it, I know... _ni los hevno_ . It is difficult to speak of.”  
“Well, for one I wasn’t famous,” Tharya chuckled weakly. “So of course you don’t know a lot of it. It’s not written on the walls of ruins anywhere, or recorded in books.”  
He grinned slowly at her. “That is not the case anymore.”  
“Yeah, yeah, I know, with Lilika set to publish my life’s tale and your epic story and all that mess.” As she sighed her gaze fell on nothing in particular, and the only sound was the steady _chop, chop_ of metal on wood. “About Fort Snowhawk earlier...” she trailed off, and then shook her head. With a huff the Last Dragonborn lifted herself to sit on the wooden counter. “Well, no, I can’t really start there.”  
“Then start at the beginning,” Miraak advised, sparing her a glance.  
She chuckled. “Such wise words from a wise old man.” The Nord was quiet for a beat longer.

“There’s a lot of beginnings...too many to choose from. I suppose it _really_ started after I killed Alduin. Everyone knows I did that, it’s not much of a story. But _after_ that, though, afterwards...well, _that’s_ a story worth telling.”

* * *

**Middas, 21st of Rain’s Hand, 4E 202**

Her breath was coming hard. Hard and fast, so fast it made her dizzy, so hard it made her chest hurt. Around her the thick, swirling fog began to clear, and the landscape of Sovngarde slowly revealed itself.  
  
Alduin’s breathing was hard too, labored as his head dropped with the weight of a thousand anvils to her feet, his black chest rising and falling in a shallow motion, but a hard one nonetheless. The bastard was dead. He had to be. Tharya swayed on her feet, vaguely heard Felldir helping Hakon to his feet on her right, and Gormlaith pulling herself up with her sword on the left. Alduin was dead.  
  
The stars reflected in his dark eyes as he glanced frantically around and then finally zeroed in on _her_ , standing above him none too triumphantly, looking closer to death than he was. There was a split in her head, bleeding profusely, covering her pale skin in crimson blood and drowning out her charcoal warpaint, matting her golden hair. There was a gaping hole above her hip where his claw had pierced straight through her, and he remembered the scream, the rattling scream. And there was a wavering kind of gratuity in her eyes as she closed them, inhaled slowly, and prepared to take his soul. Alduin closed his eyes too, smug with his own knowledge, but angered that a mere Nord _woman_ had beaten him with such enraging ease.  
  
“Hey, Alduin,” the Last Dragonborn croaked, “look at me.” One large eye cracked open, the membrane below his outer eyelid slow to recede. And, very slowly, she dropped her staff to the ground—or it simply fell from her limp, bloody fingers. The sound crashed into Alduin’s ears as he huffed out a few last breaths.  
  
“Bitch.”

The Last Dragonborn fell unconscious to the ground beside his head, and the World-Eater felt his mortal body slip away into darkness as his soul fled. His last memory in this life was a glorious cry from one of the Ancient Nord heroes, who lifted their voice to the sky to declare:  
“ _Alduin has been defeated! Alduin is dead!_ ” And, mockingly: 

“ _Long live the Dragonborn!”_

The last thing she remembered was falling to the ground, the vibrant and starry sky of Sovngarde greeting her eyes with such illumination she had to squint. There was a large, beautiful, gleaming star—or a sun? Maybe a portal?—in the very center of the lit sky, with colorful clouds, pink and purple and red and indigo, swirling around it like a tunnel, stretching all the way into the heavens. She’d never seen something more beautiful. It was the last thing she saw before she felt the ground shift as Alduin went limp, and Tharya closed her eyes as she waited for his soul to come.

**Fredas, 23th of Rain’s Hand, 4E 202**

  
When she woke next she was back in the Hall of Valor—at least she thought. The Hall itself was a finicky thing, where the heroes of old congregated and usually spent their days. But each person had their own little slice of Sovngarde, their own... _area_ , a single wave in the vast ocean of the cosmos. She didn’t know this one. It was a medium-sized room of dark stone with cream-colored banners hanging between tall windows that let in the purplish light from outside. Each banner had a light blue border, and something written in Dovahzul on it.  
  
Around the rest of the room was a desk, a couple bookcases, some worn brown sofas, a tea platter set on a low table between them, and a rug below the table. Despite the relative darkness of the room it didn’t _feel_ dark, neither in the sense of light or the sense of doom. And as she woke up more, her surroundings grew brighter, and in the corner a standing candelabra made of brass sprung to life.  
  
“Oh!” A voice somewhere else in the room exclaimed softly. A book closed, a wooden sofa frame creaked as the voice’s owner stood. In a different corner another candelabra lit. A man entered her view suddenly, a man with a pale and ruddy complexion, short dark hair and a short dark beard. A smooth hand laid itself across her forehead. “How do you feel, Dragonborn?” Was that...Jurgen Windcaller? He smiled and wound an arm around her shoulders, helping her sit up, and then fluffed the pillows so she could lean back on them. She’d seen those white banners before, in High Hrothgar. So this had to be his room.  
“Sor...sorry,” Tharya managed to croak out, watching him glide away and fuss around the tea set. She tried to clear her throat or wet her lips and all that came was a dry, horrid cough. Jurgen straightened immediately, peering at her.  
“Yes, you’ve been coughing quite a bit since your fight with Alduin,” he mused, pouring her a generous cup of tea and slowly returning, perching on the side of the bed and holding it in his hands. “Drink. I made it myself,” there was not a hint of boasting in his voice, “I hoped it would soothe your throat, Dragonborn, from all the Shouting you did.” When Tharya tried to lift her hands they were so weak, they couldn’t even maneuver out from under the blanket.  
“I..I can’t...” she rasped, and Jurgen gave her a sympathetic smile. Moving a little closer he managed to lift the cup to her lips, thin ceramic edge resting just against her mouth, and Tharya found it within herself to tilt forward and take a long sip. The tea burned at first, not because it was hot, but the sheer rawness of her throat had made it so numb that the cleansing tea felt like an invading force. Jurgen let her drink a little more before setting it down.  
  
“What day is it?” She whispered to him, glad to finally have some semblance of her voice back, even in such a quiet, raggedy tone.  
“The twenty-third,” he replied with another smile. “Of Rain’s Hand.” _Two days?_ Ysmir’s beard, she’d been out for two whole days. Had the battle really been so exacting? Her throat still burned, and when she opened her mouth again her voice didn’t come a second time. “You should still rest, Dragonborn. For all Tsun’s grumblings he would not put you out of Sovngarde in this state.” Gently Jurgen reached over to stroke her hair, something she would’ve found disconcerting from a stranger but he felt...familiar. Somehow. Maybe it was their shared use of the Voice, maybe it was simply the kind structure of his face and pale eyes, but he felt safe.  
  
No matter how much she fought to stay awake and keep talking, the warmth of his fingers brushing her scalp brought her quickly back into one of the most restorative rests she’d ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want to do a cool thing, at some point in this fic. if you have any questions whatsoever about the writing (the series, the characters, any of the fics, any plots, including this one!) or writing questions for me, i want to answer them! if i get enough i'd love to have a little q&a chapter later on. so, if you have questions (or comments! i love those to the moon and back!) leave them below!! :^)


	4. II. From Past to Present

**_Sundas, 25th of Rain’s Hand_ **

**_That’s it then. He’s dead. It’s done._ ** **_  
_ ** **_  
_ ** **_Somehow I never thought the day would come. It’s one of those things that just...you go through all the steps needed to reach a goal, except there’s a thousand steps, and each of them is more grueling than the last, and you end up working so long and hard for the goal that you almost forget what it is—and then suddenly, you have it. The goal is done. Even achieving the goal itself felt like just another trial, so when I finally killed him...I didn’t even really register it. But that was what I set out to do a year ago, and that’s what I finally did. And here I am, just sitting here, in a world that_ ** I  **_created: a world with no Alduin._ ** **_  
_ ** **_  
_ ** **_Yeah. It hurts my head to think too hard about it. Either way, it’s good to know that bastard’s soul is mine._ **

**_The sky in Sovngarde never changes. I suppose that’s to be expected, since it doesn’t ever need to, and the poets always refer to old age as the “twilight of life”. So it fits that Sovngarde, the afterlife of all places, should be forever twilight. I guess the poets were finally right about something._ **

**_It’s only been two days since I woke up, but I’m regaining my strength pretty quickly. Quicker than I would in Skyrim, at least. It’s an odd feeling, to have my body...regenerating, or something, at such a fast pace. Tsun grumbles about me being in Sovngarde, but damn, I wish I could stay here forever. When I’m hungry there’s food. When I’m cold there’s a fire. If I need a drink, all I have to do is take my pick. And when I want to talk to someone, there’s a hall full of people willing to share a story. And it’s beautiful here, too. So much prettier now that the fog is gone. The stars aren’t clouded over and I can see the path clearly. The bushes and rocks and flowers are bright, and there’s a forest I couldn’t make out before that starts at the foot of the mountains on either side of...well, wherever in Sovngarde I am. Strange. The mountains feel close, like I could walk to them if I wanted to, but they look so far away. This place seems to stretch on in every direction imaginable except behind the Hall of Valor, but I remember taking some kind of path or road when I first got here. Another weird thing. I wonder if I could find my way out of here if I tried?_ **

“Dragonborn?”   
  
She jolted a little and groaned immediately, pressing a hand to her hip where her muscles had grown stiff from sitting. Hastily Tharya closed her journal, tucking the stubby pencil into the spine—she needed a new one, anyway—and tried to lift herself to her feet.   
  
“Please, don’t hurt yourself,” Torygg said hurriedly, scuttling over to help her up. She took his outstretched arms and stood shakily, and the High King smiled widely, returning her journal to her. “You’ve healed quite well. That must be one of the benefits of this place to the living,” he aimed an appreciative glance at the landscape around them.    
“Yeah, I think so,” Tharya nodded, tucking the little leatherbound book under her arm.    
“Do you feel well enough to walk again?” Torygg extended his arm to her. They’d met only yesterday while the both of them were wandering aimlessly, her despite Jurgen’s warnings, and had spent long hours together that resulted in her nearly fainting from exhaustion.    
“Maybe not as much as yesterday,” hesitantly she took the king’s arm. She wasn’t used to this, to all this  _ relying _ and  _ helping _ , but she was not dumb enough to say she didn’t need it.    
  
Just like the day before Torygg walked at her painstakingly slow pace without so much as a grimace, humoring her many questions about Sovngarde. There was a forest, yes, and the mountains beyond that. People lived in the forest, and the mountains, just as the heroes lived in the Hall of Valor, more or less. There were other buildings scattered around the place to accommodate the different souls, and other landscapes. He’d walked to the forest’s edge before, but hadn’t ventured into it.    
“Perhaps, if you’re here much longer, we can make the trip,” Torygg grinned. It sounded promising; the forest looked shaded but welcoming. Briefly she thought she would like to be in the forest, if she ever made it to Sovngarde in, as the poets said, the  _ twilight of life _ . 

The path that had been so foggy and unclear before was something of an old stone road, with ancient, smoothed cobblestones scattered in the dirt. In some places the road was full and in others it was reduced to nothing but a footpath with a few small rocks to mark it, but regardless she and Torygg walked. Towards the mountains, she noticed, but they did not seem to be getting any closer.    
“Ah. Here’s where I wanted to show you,” Torygg gave her arm a little tug that very nearly took her knees out, and they skirted off the path into a small grove of overgrown stone benches and seats, all with a rising, multi-tiered fountain in the middle. The fountain itself ran dry but on the lowest tier there was water pooled there, still and glossy.    
“How’d you find this?” Tharya hefted a sigh as she sat on one of the cold benches. Torygg shrugged, circling the fountain.   
“Not sure. I just stumbled on it one day,” he replied, gazing into the water. “Sometimes the water here, it...shows things. Like pictures.” She was too tired to get up from her spot and see what he meant, though it did sound interesting. Instead Tharya only leaned forward over her knees as Torygg sat and peered into the glass-like surface, straining to see what he saw. “The other day,” his voice was low, “it showed me Elisif, with some guards, at my...” he hesitated, fingers curling in his lap. “At my tomb, I believe.” The High King heaved a sigh and quickly wiped at his eyes, as if doing it fast enough would obstruct it from her view. “I do wish she would stop crying for me.”   
  
Tharya had somehow forgotten, amidst the lovely peace of Sovngarde and underlying  _ life _ of it, that Torygg was really dead. Everyone here was dead. When she looked hard enough he did seem less corporeal than her; her skin was solid, firm, she looked rather dull against the landscape, and at first glance he seemed the same. But under a scrutinizing gaze she could see his misty transparency, and the soft glow emanating from the edges of his spectral body.    
  
“Torygg,” she said suddenly, “did Ulfric really kill you with just his Shout?” The king twisted around to her with a confused look on his face.   
“What?” His features turned irritated. “Is that what he’s telling everyone, that I came apart with just one word?”   
She chuckled nervously. “Well, three, actually...but, yeah. That’s what I’ve heard guards talking about. That he Shouted you to pieces.”   
“As the Dragonborn, do you think that possible? You, with your Thu’um mastery?” His tone felt accusatory but she knew in her bones he wasn’t trying to be rude; she knew how it felt to be sidelined, to be forced to look on in a situation you care about but have been removed from, and have no stake in any longer. Slowly Tharya shook her head.   
“No, I don’t. But I figured I’d ask the truth, since you lived it and seem less prone to lying than Ulfric.”    
  
With a wistful glance to the water he dipped one finger into it, swirling it in aimless patterns and sending little ripples against the stone.   
“No. Ulfric appeared in the palace wanting to challenge me to honorable combat, one-on-one,” Torygg explained slowly, blinking his eyes a million times with each word. “I, of course, accepted. Falk had barely begun to announce the rules—as is the  _ tradition _ of honorable combat—when Ulfric...Shouted, as you say. I was stunned, and went flying. The duel hadn’t even properly begun, and as I scrambled to get up...” at long last he met her eyes, tears rolling without so much as a whisper down his smooth cheeks. “He thrust his blade through my heart, and I died in Elisif’s arms.”   
  
The walk back to the Hall of Valor was silent after that. Torygg still offered her his arm and still kept her achingly slow pace, but he did not speak, and stared for the most part at his boots. She tried to comfort him once or twice, and thought about maybe reaching over to wipe his tears away, but he only patted her hand and murmured that  _ it would be alright _ . When he deposited her back at the whalebone bridge she watched him walk down the path alone, his shoulders trembling, looking more like a shade than ever before.   
  
“Dragonborn,” a low voice startled her out of her thoughts, out of watching Torygg’s bent back as he retreated. With some effort she shook her knees from their stiff positions and turned towards Tsun, standing a good two feet above her and a yard or so in front, vigilantly guarding the bridge. His thick arms were crossed. “You have tarried here much longer than any other mortal has been allowed,” he sounded grumpy, as usual, but didn’t seem too keen on the idea of her leaving either, “this land was not made for the living. Soon you must go.”   
“Jurgen-”   
“When you are healed,” he nodded slowly, raising one hand to stop her. “I would not return you to the unpredictable world so soon. But when you are healed.” Another nod, and he met her defeated eyes. “You must go.”    
  
With a heavy breath Tharya sat hard on the rocks jutting out from the grass, the hard surface none too welcome for her sore legs. But it would make a good enough respite for now, for just a moment.   
“Why do you linger, Dragonborn?” Tsun asked more gently, his curiosity seeping into his voice. “It is unlike mortals to desire to stay here in Shor’s halls, when the living world still awaits them.” She didn’t have the strength to search for an answer. Why  _ did _ she want to stay here? Here there were no problems. Here she could relax. Here, even if it made her a little queasy, other people took  _ care _ of her, and cared  _ about _ her. Here, the sky was beautiful, and there was a forest that seemed to be just waiting for her beyond the path and before the mountains. Here she was at peace, and her soul felt calm, tranquil, and even the stones did not raise their heads to try and trip her. Here, she had fulfilled her destiny, and that was all that mattered about her to the waking world. Here...here she didn’t mind being dead, if it meant all these things and people were also here for her.   
  
“I don’t know,” she sighed, feeling dizzy, hanging her head between her knees the way Jurgen had said to alleviate the spinning. “Maybe...” But there was no answer. Tsun only sighed as she slumped over herself and crumpled off the rock into the grass. So unlike mortals, to want to stay, but here was one who was discontent to go. With a small shake of his head he went forward and brought the Last Dragonborn gently into his arms, and carried her back across the whalebone bridge into the Hall of Valor, where the people he feared she had grown much too fond of were waiting to see their savior.

* * *

**_Tirdas, 27th of Rain’s Hand_ **

**_So, this is it. I thought killing Alduin was it, but as it turns out, this is._ ** **_  
_ ** **_  
_ ** **_I asked Tsun to wait a minute just so I could write one last entry here. I don’t know, but hell, maybe someday when I’m old and grey I’ll look back in this battered little journal and read this page, and I’ll think of Sovngarde. The portal is close, and Tsun led me straight through the place as if he knows Sovngarde like his hand. Probably does. Damn, I wish I could draw, this place is so beautiful, and this portal looks just like that big star in the sky. It’s so bright._ ** **_  
_ ** **_  
_ ** **_Torygg came too, came to walk with me one last time. I have no idea how, but I hope we can still be friends? It’s so...odd to befriend a dead man. It’s so odd to be in the place of the dead. I can’t even imagine how I’m going to tell my parents. Or anyone. I think Kharjo will be the only one who believes me, aside from the dragons. But that’s alright, as long as I came here and did what I had to do—which I have._ ** **_  
_ ** **_  
_ ** **_I’ll miss Sovngarde. I’ll miss this kind of peace. I have no idea what I’m going to do now, without Alduin, without the whole Dragonborn charade. I mean, I’ll still be the Dragonborn. But what else is there to do? I don’t think the world needs me for much after I step out of this place. Maybe that’s what I’ll miss. Purpose. Even in Sovngarde there’s a purpose; it’s just that for most people, it consists of drinking and fighting and having pissing contests and arm wrestling. But I want to go see those mountains, and explore the forest. There’s endless things to do here, and I’d always be busy, but always have a place to settle in. There’s no war in Sovngarde, no holy disputes, no gods being banned and outlawed, no people fighting one another (except in the daily brawls in the Hall of Valor.) And even if I’m not so important anymore...I’ll have something. And that sounds good to me._ **   
  
“Dragonborn,” Tsun rumbled, crossing his thick arms over his bare chest. Tharya looked up from her frantic writing. “It is time to go.”   
  
Torygg offered her a hand up after she had tucked the journal safely into her knapsack, gathering her staff and sword. She fastened the bandolier across her chest—it doubled as a scabbard on the back—and strode towards Tsun and the portal, gripping Torygg’s hand. The magic from the portal was heavy, like a pair of chains trying to drag her back through. The waking, living world wanted her back, her and her very much alive soul. Tharya sighed deeply and turned for one last slow, traveling look over Sovngarde. The entire place seemed still just so she could take it in, carve this moment, this landscape into her memory. The vibrant starry sky, filled with paint strokes of purple and blue and muted crimson and gold, the gentle mist hanging low in the air and putting a dreamy haze over her vision; the forest and the huge black mountains behind it, waiting for her footsteps. The curving, ancient road that led away from the portal, away from Tsun, away from life. And hovering just at the end of the road, the Hall of Valor, large and looming and utterly majestic in its stone, sitting above its crashing waterfall that went down and down into nothingness.    
  
Tharya turned to Torygg and without a word clasped him in a tight embrace. In so few days, she and the High King had become fast friends, and if there was one thing she was truly lacking in the living world it was friends. How ironic, then, that she should find a companion in a ghost.   
“Come back, but not too soon,” he grinned against her ear, patting her back lightly. “There will be a place waiting for you, of that I have no doubt.” She gave him a forlorn smile as she pulled away, and Tsun cleared his throat again. He wasn’t exactly impatient, but her prolonged stay in the afterlife concerned him much more than it seemed to concern her.    
“He speaks true, Dragonborn,” the giant man bowed his head slowly, “you are among Sovngarde’s most honored. Your seat will be immaculate. Your return to us will be glorious,” he gestured to the portal waiting for her, and reluctantly her feet gave in to the incessant pulling, the tugging from the other side. “Though Tamriel awaits you once more, savior. Do not fret for these halls,” his voice faded as the light took her eyes, and then stole her senses one by one. His next words were so quiet that he sounded like he was whispering over the roar and gurgle of a river. “They will await your arrival as the rest of Tamriel waits for you now.”

“Goodbye, Dragonborn,” Torygg added on, a little more urgent than Tsun’s calm timbre. “May we meet again.”   
  
The cold stone of Skuldafn scraped along the bottom of her boots, and a crisp mountain breeze danced around her cloak as the stone rings ground shut behind her, sealing with a final  _ boom _ that made the Velothi range shudder. Ahead of her, Odahviing got to his feet, his crimson wings shifting as he extended his head towards her.   
“You have returned,  _ Dovahkiin _ ,” he said. Tharya’s eyes flickered open, and slowly she smiled, but it didn’t quite stretch beyond her lips.   
“It’s good to be back.”

Without waiting on ceremony she threw her arms around the red dragon’s snout, laying her head on his scales.   
“Alduin is...no longer,” Odahviing rumbled, gently pushing his nose against her. “My  _ zeymah _ , my brethren, have felt his loss...there is, hm... _ tinvaak. _ We are without a leader.” She straightened up to see the dragon staring expectantly down at her. “ _ Nunon hi _ .”   
“I won’t be leading you,” Tharya patted his scales wearily. “I’m no leader. Paarthurnax would do better than I ever would. He knows  _ Faal Miraad _ ,” Odahviing tossed his head lightly away. “The Way of the Voice. He could teach it to you guys.”    
“We will see,  _ mal dovah _ ,” he grumbled.   
“Did you really wait all this time for me here?” She asked, walking away from the portal now and towards the set of stairs leading up to the stone plateau. “How long has it been?”   
“Six days since you have entered the portal,” Odahviing loped along beside her, but his strides were few and far between since he hardly needed to move for every hundred steps she walked. “Where are you going,  _ mal dovah? _ ”   
“Are you kidding? I want to explore this place.”  _ If I couldn’t do it in Sovngarde, I’ll do it here. _ “Do you know what it was way back when?” Odahviing heaved a hot sigh and nodded, waiting for her to fully descend the stairs before making a flying leap after her. Together they sat at the ledge of the tier below, overlooking the rest of the ruin.

Skuldafn, he began, was a temple-fort built high in the seclusion of the Velothi Mountains.    
“They were not named such then,” he remarked, lowering his head. “Many things have been lost.” The fort came first; it was built towards the end of the Merethic Era, a place of worship centered around the Dragon Cult and the Dragon Priests of old. Unlike in Atmora, he said, the Ancient Nords were not allowed to continue revering their old gods in private; in Skyrim, each person had come from Atmora, and thus worshiped the dragons and their religion outwardly. So before the old beliefs could spread, or any shrines and temples were built, Alduin and the others made foreign religions outlawed. Temples were built  _ only _ to the dragons; shrines were erected  _ only _ to the dragons. Inspectors were chosen in every region, in every district, and sent at random to comb through every house for evidence of other worship. Unlike the Atmorans, who had years of civilization to fall back on, the Ancient Nords were building up from nothing. And so the rule of the dragons was absolute over the new land, nothing less.    
  
Other temples like Skuldafn were also built in the mountains. Supposedly the priests and folk who lived there were the highest and most devout followers of the Cult; but this was only true for some of them. Some fled to the mountains and built their temple-forts to escape the dragons, and to worship the old gods—called the Mighty Ones by the native Atmorans—in private, far from civilization, and far from Alduin.    
“Skuldafn was no such  _ golt _ ,” Odahviing huffed with a touch of pride. “Alduin would not have set his portal here if he did not know it.”

She watched an errant snowflake drift through the air a yard or two in front of her, trailing its descent to the ground far below. “Alduin put that portal here?”   
“ _ Geh _ .” Odahviing peered at her. “It is his creation.”   
“Do I even want to know how he made it?”   
“ _ Niid. _ You do not,” the dragon replied grimly.   
  
More snowflakes began to fall, and slowly darkness seeped into the mountains from all sides. Tharya hadn’t even realized the time of day when she stepped out of the portal. But now, now it had to be near evening, if not closer to dusk. It was only Rain’s Hand...the tail end of winter, and by now, closer to the beginning of spring. The days would be growing longer and longer, but here in the mountains, the jagged peaks rose to deflect the sunset from every side, bathing Skuldafn in a misty, muted glow not unlike the soft fog of Sovngarde.    
  
“You should return,” Odahviing sat heavily beside her and rested his chin on the ledge, scooting his head closer to her side. “Your people have waited long for you.” Tharya deflated as she sighed, leaning momentarily on the dragon’s cheek, watching him close his eyes. His scales were cool on the outside, but thrummed with a lively warmth below, a warmth closer to the heat emanating from a roaring campfire rather than the warmth emanating from human skin.    
“How bout I take one last trip around,” she made a lazy gesture with her hand. “I want to take some notes on the architecture. There were a few carvings and sculptures I saw earlier,” with a yawn the Last Dragonborn stood, bending again to pluck her staff off the cold stone. “And maybe I’ll find out if Skuldafn was really a dragon temple or not,” she grinned at Odahviing who huffed out another breath, shifting his wings. “If I’m not back by daybreak just assume I woke a Draugr Deathlord or something.” No reply. 

**_Notes on Skuldafn, 201.4.27_ **

**_➼ Thresholds appear to be typical rounded arches; often connected, two “doorways” with a path running atop them. So they double as a connector for those walking above? Guards possibly?_ **

**_➼ Other arches are very large and numerous; biggest located at top of sanctuary, gradually decreasing in size as they descend to the bottom. Wide set._ **

**_➼ Curved on the underside, but pointed at the top. (Supported?) Vault arches?_ **

**_➼ Freestanding. Not connected like thresholds._ **

**_➼ Numerous pillars, freestanding. Thirty feet tall(?) and maybe about ten feet thick._ **

**_➼ Pillars are generally set around the edges of balconies and plateaus._ **

**_➼ Three pillars on either side of the area where the portal is._ **

**_➼ All seem to be affixed with bird heads? Eagle? (Birds seem pretty recurring in Atmoran/Ancient Nordic barrows)_ **

**_➼ Seems to be a “main route” through the temple, usually marked by very wide staircases/areas._ **

**_➼ “Footpaths” and landings above the “main route” probably used for guards or bannermen?_ **

**_➼ All doors (exterior and interior, with small interior exceptions) are carved and display symbolic dragon heads._ **

**_➼ Two towers. Watchtowers? Don’t clear mountains. (Guard barracks? Odd design) Both broken near the top but more or less intact at the bottom. How were they destroyed?_ **

**_➼ Symmetry. Lots of symmetry. Everything is centered and mirrored perfectly._ **

When she lifted her head from all the scrawling her feet had taken her to a wide hallway with a low, curved ceiling. Odd—the ceilings here were generally much, much higher, and only curved in diagonals, not smooth semi-circles. She closed her hand, concentrated, and then flung a ball of magelight into the air above her. It hovered around the soul gem affixed to her staff, illuminating nearly ten feet in every direction.   
“Woah,” Tharya murmured. On either side of the hallway there were endless statues, all standing atop thick marble bases. Not one of them was so tall that their heads touched the ceiling, but they loomed over her by three feet, maybe even four. They all looked to be made of granite, carved perfectly with even the smallest details; a little wrinkle beside the eyes of the first one on her left, and a sagging chin on the third one to her right. There were equal parts men and women depicted, though one was not limited to either side. Each had a staff in their hand, and glittering gemstone eyes. Some staffs were even set with fat gems on top, and some seemed to be made of quartz or even diamond. “How in Mara’s name did they get those gems  _ here _ ?” She wondered aloud, and jumped when her voice came skittering back to her from down the hallway in a ghastly, distorted echo.    
  
At a snail’s pace Tharya moved down the hallway, head swinging back and forth between each side to get a glimpse of each statue as they passed. At some point she passed a large plaque on the left side that drew her attention, and her magelight, closer. It was carved in Dovahzul, and after a moment of translation she figured it out.

_ HERE BEGINS THE SOLSTHEIM MAGES. _

Solstheim? Wasn’t that the...wasn’t that the island, the Dunmer place? It wasn’t far off the coast of Winterhold, if she remembered correctly. Or was it Windhelm? One of them.  _ Here begins the Solstheim Mages. _ Had the Cult spread as far as Solstheim too?   
  
The first man in the row was old, with short hair—an exception to those around him—and a long beard. His face was angry but not in an overt way. He looked more annoyed than anything, irritated, and had a death grip on his staff which was set with a clean cut diamond. But that didn’t interest her. What caught her attention was the second statue, another man, young. Probably younger than any of his constituents, closer to her age. Despite that he still stood as tall as the rest of them, his robes set and hanging off him with the ease of custom make. But there was one glaring difference that made her feet scrape to a stop at this statue: he was missing his head.   
  
It had been cloven off in one strike, by the looks of it, with something so sharp and powerful it left the plane of his neck smooth and level. She couldn’t think of any tool or weapon that could slice through solid granite like it was warm butter. At least not in this age. Tharya carefully placed her staff against the wall and then grabbed the statue’s extended arm, holding his staff, and hoisted herself up onto his pedestal, positioning her feet between his spread boots. His cool stone body made her shiver, hard chest and broad shoulders acting as a good support as she lifted herself onto her toes.   
“Damn,” she muttered, using her free hand to swipe her fingers over the place where his head should’ve been affixed. “What happened to you, big man?” How was it that every other statue in the hall was untouched, but this one, and  _ only _ this one, had been decapitated? Tharya was sure no looters had been here; there were gems and precious things lying all around Skuldafn proper, and a thick layer of dust over everything she had seen thus far. Even this beheaded statue.   
  
With a grunt she jumped off and caught a glimpse of the gleaming aquamarine staff, winking as her magelight died out. Tharya muttered under her breath as she lit a new one, tossing it off to her right...where it illuminated a head lying on the floor bereft of a body, and set with two matching aquamarine eyes. As she circled the statue she found that part of his arm holding the staff had also been broken off, leaving a gap from his shoulder to his wrist, and a lonesome, floating hand clenched around his weapon. Another surprise: there was a sword at his hip, a sword she’d missed earlier. If all these men and women were Dragon Priests, then it made sense they were depicted holding staffs. She couldn’t be sure but no other statue thus far had a sword  _ and _ a staff, but here this man had both. What made him so special?   
  
Tharya crouched and lifted the head off the ground. It was lighter than she expected. Turning it in her hands, she realized why. A good chunk had been taken out of the back of his skull, probably from falling so high. His cranium was hollow but his face was intact, if a bit scratched, and missing part of the left ear. The gemstones serving as eyes caught the light and she examined the statue’s granite features for a moment, proud and defined, with a squarish jaw and Nordic looking nose. His hair was a little wavy—any longer and she figured it’d be curly—and unlike others he had no reaching beard, just stubble. Long stubble, but still stubble. His eyebrows were thick and pointed inwards as if he was angry, much like his neighbor, but his lips were...grinning. It was near imperceptible, but he  _ was _ grinning. A feeling of intense uneasiness washed over her, and for a moment all she could see was that granite face staring at her, the aquamarine eyes seeming so much more  _ alive _ than the others, and she could’ve sworn-   
  
With a jolt Tharya clutched the head to her as the hallway went dark. Her magelight had gone out again.   
“Ysmir’s beard, girl. Stop jumping at shadows,” she cursed herself, slowly loosening her arms around the decapitated mage. Whatever he had done to earn such an end was none of her business, and probably lost to history by now. Looters, she told herself. Looters, or maybe a loose part of the ceiling. He was handsome, at the very least, but it was easy to find a stranger handsome when you’d spent the majority of your life around the same grimy Whiterun farm boys. “Well, I’m sorry to leave you like this, big guy,” carefully Tharya set the head between the mage’s boots, stone scraping against stone. She bent and picked up the chunk of his arm that had fallen too, split into three pieces, and placed them around his neck like a wreath. And then, before her magelight could go out again, the Last Dragonborn hurried down the hallway, pausing at the door one last time to see the broken statue. Her bones felt heavy just looking at him, and like when she was in Sovngarde, something was pulling her feet closer, something had latched onto her and was trying to bring her back.   
  
Though she didn’t know it now, she wouldn’t get rid of the feeling until much, much later, when the broken granite statue finally came alive and showed her the man for which it was carved.

* * *

“Odahviing?” Tharya asked as the moons crawled higher and higher above them, slinging her knapsack over her shoulder. The ruby dragon had insisted on taking off from the highest point of the temple, which was where the portal was. Now closed, it looked like nothing more than a huge carving in the stone ground, except for the faint wisps of colored light that seeped through the cracks and evaporated into the air. How easy it would be to return, with the staff still standing upright on the podium above the gateway. She could just go back... “When I was walking around, I found a hall with a bunch of statues in it, all holding staffs. I think they were Dragon Priests or something, but there was one...one of them had his head clobbered straight off, and his arm too. But the rest of them were pristine,” she hooked her thumbs into the pack’s straps and looked up at Odahviing, who seemed lost. “The plaque said he was from Solstheim, or something?”   
  
The dragon’s entire demeanor changed with those few words; he swung his head up and let out a short, angry roar that echoed fiercely in the mountains around them. She jumped, both hands clutching her staff.   
“ _ Grutiik _ .  _ Vokul! _ Put him from your thoughts,  _ mal dovah _ . He is  _ Dovahkriid _ , dragonslayer, and a traitor,” he blew out an angry breath through his nostrils, and lowered his neck so she could get on. “It is best you forget him.  _ Vokul _ ,” he muttered again, “and do not mention what you have seen to any other  _ dovah _ .”   
“Oh,” she mumbled, “a-alright. Sorry for asking?”   
“You did not know,  _ mal dovah _ ,” despite his words Odahviing’s voice was still tight, and his wings rigid. “ _ Hi los oblaan. _ You should return to your people,” with a powerful pump of his wings they were in the air, hovering above Skuldafn and getting higher with each flap.   
  
Odahviing loosed another triumphant roar into the Velothi Mountains, this one echoing brilliantly among the cloudy peaks. He circled Skuldafn once, twice, before Tharya gripped the edges of his scales and they flew off to the southwest, towards Whiterun. Towards home.

The Dragonborn was going home.

* * *

**_COMPLETED: DRAGONSLAYER_ **

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a friendly reminder to leave any questions or comments you want answered in the comment section! i want to do a little q&a if i can, so i'll take questions about this fic, my characters, or the series as a whole! :^)


	5. III. Dragonsreach

**Middas, 28th of Rain’s Hand**

“You can put me down here,” she gestured to the field beside Fort Greymoor, still abandoned and still a relative eyesore to Whiterun’s fresh, sprawling landscape. Odahviing huffed his acknowledgement and circled around the fort, growing closer to the ground with each pass, before setting himself down none too lightly on the field beside the road. With a sigh Tharya straightened her back enough and swung her right leg over his neck to join her left, and then pushed herself off to land on the ground. “Ooh, jeez, ouch. My ass is stiff, somehow,” she groaned, twisting around to crack her back. Odahviing sighed heavily and put his chin on the ground for a moment. “Thank you a ton for the ride, big guy,” Tharya reached out to pat his head. “And thank you for everything. All your help. I can’t actually believe I’m done,” she laughed a little.  
“ _Dinok?_ This is no end, Dovahkiin,” he huffed. “An end to one thing, one life. Another has just only begun.”   
“I’d expect nothing less cryptic from a dragon,” she laughed again, this time full-hearted and smiling.   
“ _Geh_ . Should you need me again,” Odahviing raised his head to the sky again and squared his shoulders, lifting himself with his back legs and positioning his wings. “Simply call my name, _mal dovah_ , and I shall come.” Tharya smiled up at him, pulling his nose back down to give him one last hug. Gently the dragon nudged her legs, exhaling a hot breath through his nostrils.   
“Thank you, Odahviing,” she said again, and when she let go and cleared his wings the ruby dragon gave her one last look before launching himself into the sky. He flew low past the western watchtower—probably giving the guards and workers there rebuilding it a good scare—before vanishing into the foggy cluster of clouds that seemed to hang consistently around the Throat of the World.

With a sigh, Tharya checked herself: staff, sword, knapsack, journal intact, scrolls still safe in her belt under her green ruana, Arch-Mage pin still on her shoulder, maps still good in the bag. With that reassurance she set off towards Whiterun, climbing the hill in distance and jutting into the clouds, for the first time in what felt like forever. The day was warm, growing uncomfortably so under the lambswool of her ruana, so as she passed the watchtower she shrugged her bandolier off to remove it.  
  
Just as she guessed, there were guards and laborers at the watchtower repairing it—it wasn’t quite completed yet, but it was coming along well. They shouted to her that there was a dragon around, crimson in color, though it didn’t seem to be disturbing anyone.   
“Just flew right on by,” one of the guards made a gesture with his hand, “right on to the mountains. Didn’t touch nothing.”   
“Is that so?” She blinked at him. “Well, maybe the dragons will be friendlier now.”   
“What makes you say that, Dragonborn?” The guard asked, cocking a thick eyebrow upwards. She was quiet for a moment before his face went white. “You don’t mean—! Dragonborn! You’ve done it!” With an excited jump he spun towards the watchtower. “Men! The Dragonborn says she’s done it! The World-Eater is no more!” Tharya let a small smile cross her lips. It was good to hear it from someone other than Gormlaith. Good to hear it from someone living, someone who would spread the news, someone who would let others know. As the laborers began hooting and hollering she snuck off, back to the road and back towards Whiterun. The guard called after her.   
“Where are you going, Dragonborn! We have mead to celebrate!”   
“To tell the Jarl!” She shouted back. He said something else that she didn’t hear and she waved him off, resuming her walk up the road.

Knight was exactly where she left him at the stables a week ago, and upon seeing her approach he began tossing his head and whining in his stall, knees knocking against the front gate. The stablehand looked up at him with fear in his eyes, wondering how in Shor’s name she’d have to calm this beast without getting kicked in the gut.   
“Easy now, easy,” the girl mumbled, carefully reaching out to stroke Knight’s muzzle and pat his neck. “E-easy. What’s got you so worked up?”   
“That would be me,” Tharya huffed, a little breathless from having run the last few hundred feet to the stables. The girl jumped and turned, eyes widening slowly. “He’s my horse,” she clarified with a smile, “thanks for taking care of him though! I promise I’ll pay,” she reached around to unlock the gate and it swung open, Knight trotting happily out and snorting. “First I gotta deliver some really important news to the Jarl, okay?”   
“But-”   
“I’ll pay on my way back out, promise!” Without even bothering to saddle Knight she hopped onto his back, gripping his mane. “Important news!” With a dig of her heels the dappled grey steed took off and swung a wide right onto the road. “Shor’s crown, I missed you, boy!” She laughed, patting his neck. He neighed in response, loping up the smooth stones and trotting across the drawbridge. “Open up! I’m back!” The guards jumped from where they had been leaning against the walls chatting, the gates to Whiterun already swung wide open. It was the middle of the morning, of course they would be open.   
“Say, Dragonborn!” One of them called, much to her excitement. “What news?”   
“Alduin’s dead!” She cried back, suddenly filled with such giddy joy that she could’ve laughed and cried and danced all at the same time. The guards stared blankly at her before they erupted into hollers of their own, crossing the space between them to embrace one another.   
  
The Plains District was crowded around this time of day, but that was hardly a surprise. Past the fur trader nestled within the walls and beyond Adrienne Avenicci’s forge, through all the small shops with doors swung open to let in the spring breeze, after the bakery and the butcher and the seamstress was the round marketplace lined with stalls, and the Bannered Mare sitting proudly in the center of it all. Carefully Tharya wound her way through the trickles of people, all of which graciously moved aside for her. Horses were not strangers to Whiterun streets; the city boasted the finest cavalry in Skyrim and streets of neatly packed stone that were _just_ wide enough to fit two carriages abreast. Sitting high above them all she could see Whiterun’s thriving heart from every direction.   
  
“Let’s not crowd the market any more than we have to,” she gave Knight a gentle tug but he knew Whiterun and the surrounding plains well, almost as well as Tharya did. He worked his way slowly towards the stairs off to the left, beside the small guardhouse for those on duty at the gate and within the district, that led up to the Wind District. Residential, mostly, unlike the bustling marketplace and streets of shops. “Coming up,” she called to the woman who stood at the top of the stairs, holding a little girl’s hand ready to descend. Knight plodded up the stairs without so much as a care, and she said her thanks to the woman.   
  
Out of all the places in Whiterun, the Wind District was perhaps the most familiar. It was also the quietest, unless the Battle-Borns were holding another snooty party. Mostly abandoned during the day but just as large as the market district, the Wind District boasted a four-tiered fountain just up the stairs, with four horses standing at each cardinal direction and rearing onto their back legs, water bubbling calmly from granite mouths. Tharya drew Knight to a stop beside it, fishing in her bandolier...was it the third pocket, or the last one? She could never remember completely. The _jingle_ of coins told her it was indeed the third; she snagged a septim and pondered it for a moment, before laying it across her thumb and flicking it into the fountain. It fell with a satisfying _plunk_ and floated to the bottom.   
  
The road branching off to the left of the fountain was short but the one she knew best; at the end of that road was Breezehome, its back to the stone walls, and a small garden to the side. Briefly she wondered if her parents would be home, or if they had been in the market like everyone else. Knight began to wander past the fountain towards where he knew the house was, but she pulled him back around.   
“Not now, big boy. We have to go talk to Balgruuf,” she gave his neck a soothing pat, “but maybe after that.” The horse gave a grunt and looped around the fountain again, heading for the towering figure of the Gildergreen down the street.

The Temple of Kynareth hung on the edge of the Wind District, its only non-residential building, and faced outwards towards the huge tree that, not too long ago, had been on the verge of death. Knight brought her across the small wooden bridge that led to the center of Whiterun and the tree, turning now for the Cloud District.   
“Looking good, Danica,” she called to the priestess who was sitting on one of the finely carved benches at the tree’s base, a book in her lap and dappled shade dancing around her. “Has it grown?”   
“Very much, yes, Dragonborn,” the woman replied, looking at her a little curiously. “When did you get back?”   
“Just now,” Tharya gestured up towards Dragonsreach. “Taking the scenic route.” 

The stairs up to Dragonsreach were long, narrow, and seemingly endless, but at least there were no people to worry about passing. The keep rose higher into the sky as she drew closer. It was strange...even after everything that had happened, even after Balgruuf had given her gifts and made her a Thane and had worked so closely with her to capture Odahviing, traversing up to the palace was still exciting. Some part of her remembered climbing these many steps as a girl with her father just to see the Jarl up close, though in those days it hadn’t been Balgruuf.   
  
“Dragonborn,” a guard greeted her as she slid off her horse, staring up at Dragonsreach. She used to think the keep could’ve poked through the sky itself. “You’ve returned.” Of course the guards here seemed less impressed by her arrival. They had been the ones who helped her leave, after all.   
“Yeah, is Balgruuf—is the Jarl busy?” She asked, correcting herself when the man peered at her. He shook his head and made a gesture across the small courtyard to the wooden bridge that led straight to the great doors of Dragonsreach.   
“No, he has been expecting you.” Without another word the guard placed a gauntleted hand on Knight’s back and guided him away, towards the stables out of sight. Tharya bounced her staff between her hands before gripping it firmly in one, taking a deep breath, and crossing the courtyard to the bridge. The wood did not creak but her footsteps seemed weighted and loud as she crossed it, the pools of water below churning and rippling lightly in the breeze. By the time she reached the doors one had been pushed open for her, just enough to slip through. Scraping her boots on the wood Tharya stepped through, and felt the vibrations shudder through the floor as the door shut heavily behind her.   
  
“Don’t go tracking your muddy boots all around!” A shrill voice said immediately, and someone thwacked her shin with a broomstick. “I just cleaned there.”   
“Oh,” she hurriedly moved away from the crabby old woman, “sorry, my bad.”   
“And now you’ll be bringing the dirt all the way up the clean rugs with you!” Tilda—was that her name?—made a gesture with one weathered hand to the ruby red rug that spanned the length of the floor to the stairs.   
“I have to go see the Jarl,” Tharya raised one eyebrow, “I’m sorry.” Tilda went on muttering to herself as she shooed the Nord away, and slowly the Dragonborn climbed the small set of stairs.   
  
The first thing she noticed was the scent; it lingered all around Dragonsreach, even filtering up to the rafters, and it emanated from the unlit fireplace. An oblong rectangle, the fireplace was completely devoid of wood. She supposed it wasn’t needed, not yet at least. Spring and summer were well on their way, and especially in Whiterun’s temperate climate, a fire as large as this one wasn’t needed until late fall. There were a few workers cleaning out the shallow pit, covered in soot and looking miserable. She knew they couldn’t smell the stench of ash and old smoke as strongly as she could, and it took control to not cover her nose as she passed.   
  
“What would you have me do, then? Nothing?”   
“My lord, please. There is no need to ally ourselves with the extremes,” Proventus pleaded. “Perhaps we could find a...a resolution? A middle ground. Surely Ulfric will honor what you’re saying-”   
“Ulfric will only find honor in me handing Whiterun to him,” Balgruuf snapped back, “and only on his terms. I will be doing no such thing,” the Jarl settled back into his seat, a grimace painted clearly on his face. Irileth gave a weary sigh. “ _Whiterun_ is my priority, and if Ulfric will not honor that, then I have no business with him.”   
“I will send the messenger away, then,” the Dunmer woman lifted herself off the wall, and only then did Tharya spot the steel axe sitting in her hands. “ _Again_ .” Without another word Irileth trudged past Tharya and barked at the workers to get out of her way.   
  
“My lord,” the Dragonborn said quietly, taking a small step forward. Balgruuf had been rubbing his eyes but now they fell open, and his disinterested gaze landed on her. Suddenly he sprang to life.   
“Tharya! Ysmir’s beard, I had hoped you were not lost,” he stood from his chair and smiled widely at her. “What of Alduin?”   
“Dead,” she replied, wrapping both hands loosely around her staff. “Sovngarde is safe now, as is the rest of Tamriel.” Balgruuf threw his head back to laugh, though Proventus didn’t look half as amused. No, his calculating brown eyes took her in slowly, with the edge of a threat waiting behind them. “I spent a while recuperating in Sovngarde, that’s why it took me so long to get back.”   
“Well,” the Jarl clapped a hand on each of her shoulders, still smiling, “we have waited here for you in fear, I must say, Dragonborn. Never doubt! But fear.” His eyes turned sad for a moment before he stepped away. “Proventus! Some wine. The Dragonborn has accomplished her mission,” he gestured to one of the long banquet tables bordering the fireplace, “and I’d like to share a drink with Skyrim’s _truest_ daughter.”   
Tharya eyed Proventus as he went away grumbling. Balgruuf led her to the left table and pulled out a chair for her to sit.   
  
“You should get rid of him,” she said once Proventus was out of sight. Balgruuf raised a blond eyebrow at her. “It’s a long story, but...he’s a Thalmor asskisser. I saw him at one of Elenwen’s parties—she runs the Justiciars here in Skyrim.” The Jarl nodded slowly.   
“And what were _you_ doing at a Thalmor party, Dragonborn?” He asked. She grinned.   
“Stealing from the Thalmor, of course.” He let out another laugh, and it rang loud and clear into the rafters of Dragonsreach. The workers gave them a sidelong glance. “Leave us,” Balgruuf waved them off and the trio of men scurried away, wiping their sooty hands on their shirts.   
“What was that about Ulfric earlier?” Tharya asked.   
“We must have a feast, Dragonborn,” the older man completely ignored her question as Proventus approached, eyeing the wine he held. “Don’t you think, Proventus? A feast for the Dragonborn?”   
“Oh, no, no. Not _for_ me. I can’t stand being the center of attention,” she laughed nervously, wringing her fingers in her lap, “and I’m not good at playing dress-up.”   
“Just a feast, then,” the Jarl took the cups from his steward and then the pitcher, and poured each of them a generous amount of sweet wine. “To Alduin, then.” He lifted his goblet.   
“Alduin?” She raised an eyebrow.   
“Since you don’t want to be the _center of attention_ ,” Balgruuf chuckled. “Someone has to be.”   
  
Tharya smiled, and raised her cup in return.   
“To Alduin.”

* * *

**Fredas, 30th of Rain’s Hand**

The banquet, much to her relief, was just the usual.  
  
The 28th of Rain’s Hand happened to be Jester’s Day, so there were gleemen and jugglers left over from the festivities, and, of course, jesters in the city, all of which were invited to the feast. Any who weren’t had to contend with the near empty streets of Whiterun or the dwindling population at the Bannered Mare. Almost everyone in the city seemed to be packed into Dragonsreach, coming and going as they pleased, the great wooden doors flung halfway open to let people in. Musicians in the corner by the doorway to Farengar’s office played jubilant tunes with chipper flutes and thumping drums. Children and adults alike danced nearby. Balgruuf was mingling with Irileth trailing him from a respectful distance. Tharya kept one eye on Proventus and another on the open doors, waiting for her family to waltz through. She had caught up with her parents not long after returning to Whiterun, and went to visit her older siblings Freana and Jorstus. Jorstus lived within the city walls, in one of the few houses within the Plains District, but Freana lived in the fields and rolling hills west of the walls with her own farm and her partner Ionnja. Lilika, the youngest of the Sun-Sword family, was still off in Solitude at the Bard’s College, and wouldn’t be home until summer. Her twin brother Lofrek, as she understood it, still lived in Breezehome, and was just as grumpy as ever.   
  
“You’ve returned,” a gentle, raspy voice said against her ear, and someone passed behind her to stand at her side. “Khajiit hoped you would not be staying in Sovngarde forever.”

Tharya turned from where she had rooted herself to the floor to come face to face with a familiar blue-eyed Khajiit, his pointed ears standing tall but relaxed, not alert or waiting for anything. Immediately she put her drink down to throw her arms around him, bursting into laughter.  
“I know, I took my sweet time,” she smiled as Kharjo nuzzled lightly into her hair. “You didn’t have to wait, though.”   
“Where would I have gone?” He asked in the same quiet, kind voice. “This one is lucky the Jarl even let me stay within the city walls.”   
“Balgruuf wouldn’t kick you out,” she said, drawing back and holding his sides. Kharjo gave her a doubtful look.   
“He would if I were not important,” he replied with a shake of his head and a flick of his ears. “But no matter. You are back.” The Khajiit gave her another squeeze. “Let us talk somewhere.” Tharya glanced one last time around the party and then to the open doors; each face was familiar in its own right, but none of them were her family. Turning back to Kharjo she nodded, grabbed her drink, and motioned for him to follow her.   
  
“I’m sorry, Dragonborn, the upstairs is closed off,” a pair of guards standing at the staircase leading further into Dragonsreach stopped her. “Even to you.”   
“Is it? That’s a real shame,” she sighed, “my friend here was really hoping to see where we captured that dragon. Didn’t you guys help with that?” The guard who had spoken to her peered back at Kharjo before looking at her. They were both quiet for a long moment before he sighed.   
“Fine. But only the balcony,” he warned, “in ten minutes I’m coming to get you.”   
“Yessir,” she replied as the guards moved aside and she and Kharjo slipped by.   
  
Up the stairs was a chamber with a high ceiling, what acted as Balgruuf’s war room. There was a table in the center of it with a massive map of Skyrim spread across the top, and little red and blue pins planted around it. A few bookcases lined the wall. Across the chamber were two sets of huge doors on two walls, one leading outside, and one leading into the Jarl’s quarters. There were two more guards positioned at the Jarl’s doors but they paid them little attention, and together they pushed open the wicket and stepped out onto the balcony.

The cool night air met her nose immediately, soothing away the scents from downstairs that had been fighting over one another for control. Still the faint smell of alcohol and wood and people filtered into the air around her, but only because she had absorbed it from being down there so long. There was a fat, full moon hanging on the blanket of stars that shrouded the twilight sky, and as she drew closer to its light her skin began to tingle all over.   
“We do not have to leave the shadow,” Kharjo prompted, looking at her curiously.   
“No, no. It’s alright,” she smiled and gestured to the wooden banquet table at the end of the balcony, bathed in the pale light of the moon. “I can control it.” She seated herself atop the table and planted her feet on one of the chairs, gazing out over the city and the plains beyond. Kharjo leaned against the wood beside her, giving a quiet sigh. 

“So,” Tharya said after a moment, looking towards him, “what next?”  
Abruptly the Khajiit laughed. “ _Next?_ This one has only just come back to us,” he shook his head, sharp teeth flashing as he grinned, “perhaps a rest, first.”   
“I suppose you’re right,” she shrugged. “But after that?”   
“Do you not have the College to tend to?”   
“Oh, right...forgot about that.” It hadn’t even been a year since she’d become Arch-Mage—which hadn’t been the intention when she stopped in Winterhold. The snows had come early that year and made it near impossible to leave, so she had dabbled around in the College while she was there. Perhaps it had been the wrong time to do it, perhaps it had been the perfect time, because she ended up discovering the Eye of Magnus with them, and, when the blizzards stopped coming and the roads were just barely passable again, fought a dead Dragon Priest in the ruins of Labyrinthian just to kick some crazy Thalmor’s ass. “Yeah, I should probably go check in on them for a bit. Who knows. But how about we go back to Labyrinthian? You remember the weird thing with the wooden mask?” Kharjo hummed and nodded. “We could try to piece that together.” He made no reply. Shit, was he not interested? Could be. The thought excited _her_ , but maybe that’s not how he wanted to spend his days. “Or,” she chuckled uncertainly, “we could go look for the unicorn Tolfdir was talking about.”   
“I still do not believe it exists,” Kharjo snickered. Her heart fell again. So that was out of the question too. What else?   
“Wanna go to Blackreach?” This time he laughed out loud. Well, good. He thought that was as outlandish and horrible as she did. No one _wanted_ to go to Blackreach, but somehow one could always end up there even without trying. “Well, what _do_ you want to do?”

Kharjo examined the stars for a long time, eyes flicking between patterns and constellations. His silence unsettled her. He was on the quiet side to begin with, but he always had something to say, no matter the topic of discussion. And whenever it concerned _them_ and their course of action, he _always_ said something. But now here he was, quiet as the night sky above. A bitter wind blew around the sides of Dragonsreach and through her tunic. For a moment Tharya turned her head towards the mountains, tracing their jagged silhouettes with her eyes. Somewhere nestled in those peaks was Skuldafn, secluded and silent. And in Skuldafn was a gate to Sovngarde, the only place she’d ever felt so at ease, so _wanted_ , so happy in her entire life. Also in Skuldafn was that endless hall, the hall of statues, men and women, the mages, and in that hall was the headless...  
  
“I am going to return to my caravan,” Kharjo spoke at last, words she knew were coming but still felt a knot of dread twist in her stomach when they left his mouth. _Leaving. You’re leaving._ _Everyone leaves._ “They passed by Whiterun while you were gone, and we spoke. Ri’saad is thinking of moving the routes to Cyrodiil.” He looked at her with his wide, feline eyes and blinked slowly, reaching out to pat her hand on the table. “I have been away from them for very long.”  
“Of course, of course,” she said automatically, turning her hand over to grasp his, “no, I think you should. I’m shocked you even let me take you away in the first place,” a humorless laugh, “or that you stayed this long. But I really appreciate it, Kharjo.” His face contorted into confusion.  
“This one is not upset?”  
“No, of course not!” Another laugh, but this time she forced something substantial into it. “Moving to Cyrodiil is probably smart, there’s no Stormcloaks there. As a nation they have more wealth than Skyrim.” Tharya nodded once, twice. “I think you should do whatever you want. It was silly of me to assume you’d be staying after...all this was done.” Wishful thinking, that’s all it was. What reason did he have to stay? None. Not even, as she hoped, her. _No, no, you idiot, stop pitying yourself. He’s leaving. It’s a good decision for him._ Leaving. Leaving. _Everyone leaves. This one is not upset? No, of course not._  
  
“Well then,” Kharjo smiled sympathetically at her, “the caravan is halfway to Rorikstead by now. I will ride out tomorrow.”  
“Tomorrow?” She echoed. So soon? So quickly? Then this conversation didn’t even matter; this was nothing but a final farewell. If he was leaving so soon, he’d made up his mind a long time ago. This transaction, this friendship...was limited.  
  
Without a word the Khajiit stepped closer and brought her into his arms, nuzzling one last time into the side of her neck. Tharya chewed her lip and stared at the table, willing herself not to lose it. Not to cry. Not here, and not now. _Everyone leaves._ Exactly. Everyone leaves, why should this be so different?   
“Khajiit will not forget this one,” Kharjo gave her a tight squeeze that almost forced the sob from her chest. “And when the war is over, I will come back to visit.” _Visit_. Visit was just as temporary.  
“Well, I guess I better get on that then,” Tharya joked, and he laughed, but she didn’t. He stepped away and patted her shoulders. “Bye, Kharjo.” One last smile.  
“May your road lead you to warm sands,” she inhaled his scent slowly, “my friend.”  
  
It felt like an eternity until the guard came up to retrieve her. Kharjo had only been gone for minutes—and not even truly gone, he was just downstairs, and she would see him at the party—but she felt as if another hundred years had passed. The only reminder of the day was the full moon hanging in the sky, and for a moment she considered giving in to it. At the best, she wouldn’t remember the conversation, or the rest of the night, and it seemed tempting. But as she weighed her options the wicket gate flung open and the guard told her time was up, and she trailed him back down the stairs.  
  
This time Tharya didn’t pause to look for her family. She moved around the edges of the party and towards the doors to Dragonsreach, avoiding Balgruuf entirely, and even Proventus. She walked alone through the empty streets of Whiterun, under the full moon that still taunted her from above, and out the city gates. She let Knight lead the way home, not entirely grasping the reins and not entirely looking where he was going either. When they reached Tundra House she put him in the stable after removing his saddle, and then trudged up to the door she still felt as if she hadn’t opened in months. Last night had been a restless one, after so many weeks sleeping in the grass or in cramped waystation beds on the road. She was sure tonight would be the same.

  
And it struck her that, the moment she closed the door to Tundra House, she was alone. The feeling cut through the haze of the alcohol and the food like a slaughterfish fin slicing through the surface of a lake, broke the spell of her beast blood singing in her veins like a sharpened greatsword moving effortlessly through butter. It crumpled her unfeeling nerves and then sprang them into action, but all they registered was _pain;_ she was alone. Alone, again.   
  
Naturally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be no update next week (10.1.20)!! updates will resume the following week. thank you for your patience!


	6. IV. Into Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i altered the night to remember quest a little bit to better fit tharya's situation & placement (bc no way did we get from whiterun to morvunskar to markarth in a night) remember to leave your questions and/or comments below, i love reading them!!

**Lored** **as, 1st of Second Seed**

**Why does everything good never last long?** **  
****  
****I know I planned on doing things. On my way to Skuldafn I thought of a million things to do after defeating Alduin,** **_if_ ** **I defeated Alduin. I was certain of some of them. But I haven’t done** **_anything_ ** **. I have nothing to do, not anymore. I don’t even feel like visiting my parents. Freana came by with some things from her garden yesterday but I didn’t even get up to answer the door. I think they’re still out there.** **  
****  
****I told myself a million times that life would be different after Alduin was done. I never expected to become a celebrity overnight, but this? This is nothing. I wasn’t expecting and pomp and circumstance, no parades...hell, maybe I was. I don’t know. I want to be recognized but I don’t want to be selfish, and in my head, those are the same exact thing. Maybe I thought things would be different once I killed Alduin. I wasn’t expecting much. But this is less than nothing. This is my old life. This is just me, alone, again, sitting in my house as if nothing ever happened. And all I did was save the world.**

  
  


**Fredas, 7th of Second Seed**

  
Wistfully Tharya stared at the empty page of her journal. Somehow it had become a burden, though it had once been a comfort, a routine, something she enjoyed doing. Life on the road was lonely and she could only say so much to Kharjo, who had problems of his own to worry about, but venting to a blank page had its benefits. What, exactly, did she have to vent about now? Her eyes traveled to the third uncorked bottle of mead sitting on the floor beside her. Could she vent about that? Vent about her own stupidity, when the only person who’d read it was herself? The wine and ale storage hadn’t been touched in about a year, since she hadn’t been home much since that day at Helgen. Now, she decided, was a good time to make a dent in it.

What even was the use? It’s not like anyone would read that, ever. Why did she bother? She stared at the page and the pencil in her hand before lazily tossing the journal away, and then the pencil after it. Useless, useless, useless. Outside the sun was setting. She gazed out the window above her desk and then looked away from the proud silhouette of Whiterun. Useless, useless, useless.  
  
Getting up, the Last Dragonborn crossed the room with heavy feet and fell with no amount of grace onto her bed, sighing against the pillow. She was hungry, but had no will to cook. Another bottle of mead might do. _They have endless mead in Sovngarde_ , she thought to herself, _endless. Always._ Sovngarde. Only three bottles here and her head was hazy; it was just enough, just good enough to release the knots in her shoulders. Just good enough. Maybe she’d have to get more.   
  
That’s how the days passed.   
  
Drinking, staring, sitting. Sometimes none of them and sometimes all three at the same time, though sometimes even leaving bed was a chore. Finally she took Freana’s vegetables off her doorstep, surprised that no one else in her family had bothered to check in. Maybe they had, maybe she didn’t hear the door. Or maybe they had left too. The vegetables had rotted sitting out for a week in the sun, and animals had gotten to some of them, if not all. She let them rot more in the basket on the kitchen table. Drinking, staring, sitting. Nothing to write about. Nowhere to go. Drinking, staring, sitting. _Sovngarde._ Drinking. Staring. Sitting. Sovngarde. Never so happy, never so light, never so wanted. Sovngarde. Soon it filled her dreams, walking through the dewy mist, strolling again with Torygg down the ancient road, crossing the whalebone bridge to the towering Hall of Valor. Jurgen tending to her in the days after the fight, Gormlaith sparring with her.   
  
Once she took her sword out of its sheath. It didn’t get much use, not as much as her staff, but it was a good defense and a good weapon when magic failed or in close quarters. Kharjo did not enjoy being singed or tangled up in vines. She’d hacked off a troll’s hand with it once. Sovngarde. Tharya peered at her reflection in the shining blade. Sovngarde.

And then the wine and mead storage ran dry.

  
  


**Tirdas, 11th of Second Seed**

“So, do you have anything for me?” She asked, watching Aela comb through the papers.   
“Have you checked the missive board in the city?” The other woman inquired, raising an auburn eyebrow in her direction. Tharya always thought it both strange and fun they had the same warpaint, but now it didn’t phase her. “Good gods, sister. When’s the last time you had a good bath?”   
“I’ve been doing things,” Tharya replied shortly, narrowing her eyes. “Do you have anything or not?” Aela’s mouth twisted into a frown.   
“Not for that kind of attitude.” Despite her words the huntress handed her a piece of paper.   
“What’s this?”   
“Why don’t you read it?” Aela snipped, crossing her arms. “Pay’s good, but you might want to take someone with you.” Five hundred septims to get rid of the bandits at Valthiem. Again? Again.   
  
It was still morning when she left Jorrvaskr, so she made a quick exit from the city, kept her head down. Carlotta stopped her in the marketplace where she hoped to blend in with the swarm of people. A friendly conversation, that’s all it was, so Tharya put on her nicest smile and pretended she had time to spare. After that it was to the stables, and then a left down the road that would lead her towards Fleetford, a little town situated on the White River about a third of the way between Whiterun and Ivarstead. Valthiem was halfway to Fleetford, a morning of riding away. She’d cleared this place twice before, but each time a new group of bandits would move in and take control of the road to inflict undue tolls on people, or rob them blind. Or kill them.   
  
Just as the two times before, she left Knight just out of sight of the towers, and sent arrows into the gullets of those patrolling the thin stone bridge that crossed high above the river. She drew closer, and shot the pair of bandits on the road next; the second one proved troublesome, running around aimlessly looking for their attacker, but she came down as well. There were three other places in Valthiem bandits could be hiding; each spot was cleared easily by a quick succession of arrows, including the lookout across the bridge.

By noon she sat down to help herself to the lunch the unfortunate souls had set out for themselves, and by evening she was striding out of Jorrvaskr with a fat coin purse in her hands.  
  
Tharya’s boots scraped to a stop as she passed by the Bannered Mare, raucous laughter bubbling over from within. _I have nothing back home_ , she thought to herself, conjuring images of the woefully empty mead stores at Tundra House. All day there had been a dull throbbing in the back of her head that had slowly spread through her skull, and all day there was baseless agitation lurking in her veins, ready to burst from under her skin. Another bout of laughter rose from the inn, and taking a glance at the purse in her hand, Tharya went inside.

The moment the door shut behind her she was met with more hollers, all joyful, all happy. Here people were having a _good time_ . There was no need to worry about Alduin, or Sovngarde, or Ulfric and the war. Here, there was nothing but good intentions, and good mead. A smile found its way to her face as she sat down, and Hulda turned to her.   
“Dragonborn!” She crowed, throwing her arms up in greeting. “What can I get you tonight? First drink on the house, of course, for the savior of Skyrim!” A few cheers went up from people who had seen her walk in.   
“Anything you got,” Tharya replied. “And a round for everyone here!” That got more attention. “No, make it two,” she slapped the entire coin purse down on the counter, and immediately all hungry eyes fell to it. To her. She put on her best smile.   
“Well then,” Hulda eyed the purse, “two rounds for the house.”   
  
And that laughter, that infectious laughter erupted from the Bannered Mare once again to permeate the cold night outside.

* * *

**_I think it’s the 15th?_ **

**_Is there some way to get to Sovngarde without dying? Not that dying would be horrible. Not anymore, since I’ve apparently served out my purpose and everyone knows you can’t teach an old dog new tricks (even if the old dog’s only trick is dragonslaying, which is pretty handy.) But lately that shit has been in all my dreams, every night. Every night I actually get to sleep._ **   
  
She paused as Hulda came over to place another stein at her elbow, peering for a moment at the mostly empty page of her journal.   
“Seen an awful lot of you lately, Dragonborn,” she said, planting ruddy hands on her wide hips.   
“What of it?” Tharya raised a challenging eyebrow at the older woman. Which drink was this, her third? It was taking more and more to actually get the alcohol to do something. Maybe her fourth.   
“Nothing,” Hulda looked at her oddly before moseying away behind the counter again. The Bannered Mare was quiet for a weeknight, but outside the rain poured down, making the stone streets slick and slippery, making for a dark, lonely atmosphere within the tavern. Tharya frowned at the empty spots, the empty chairs and tables. There were one, two, four—five people in here besides herself. One of them was Ramia, Jorstus’s flame, as she understood it. The Redguard woman looked up to find Tharya’s gaze and smiled kindly at her. Briefly the Dragonborn wondered if she had met the rest of the family yet.   
  
Taking a long sip of her ale, she picked up the stubby pencil again.

**_What do I have to do? Nothing. Yesterday I considered tapping into the Cash Stash in the basement. Gods know how much I have saved up in there. Gods know I could use it. For what, I got no clue, but something. Purpose. Even if it’s just mead. Hell, I could probably start up my own brewery for all I’m worth._ ** **_  
_** **_  
_** **_Somehow I managed to waste all 300 septims from the last job Aela gave me...when did I start blowing so much money on mead? On a good time? On drink? On_ **

“Hey, sssstranger,” a voice slurred as a man approached her, wearing a long black robe held by a red belt around his waist. His hair was dark and reached his shoulders, a little curly, eyes bloodshot and red. Without an invitation he flopped down in the chair beside her, some ale sloshing out of his stein and over his sleeve. “Whoops,” his eyes trailed down to his soaked sleeve, but he ignored it. A wave of unexpected drowsiness hit Tharya as the stranger sat beside her, drowsiness that immediately dulled her senses, even her nose. He _reeked_ of alcohol and something else, something strange. His magical aura was... _outlandish_ . That he even had a magical aura was shocking. But all that faded away as he looked at her with a lopsided grin.   
  
“I don’t think we’ve....we’ve met,” Tharya found herself struggling to form words correctly. Was she really this drunk? Normally it didn’t feel like this. Normally it felt like inflation, like rising. The man reached over to slap her knee a few times.   
“Sam Guev...Guv...Geuvenne,” he finally managed to get out, nodding staunchly at her. “And you—my lady?”   
“Th...” she closed the journal in her lap, tucking it under one leg. Gods, why was her head throbbing? “Tharya.” His eyes lit up in a way that no drunk’s eyes could, and then he patted her knee again. Any farther up and she’d push him off, but for now he was just a drunk a few inches shy of a grope.   
“Well, _Tharya_ ,” he pronounced her name with some difficulty, “whaddya say to a friendly little drinking contest?” Each word he spoke was slow but formed well on his lips. A drinking contest? She felt the coin purse tucked between her hip and the chair. Full, still. _Somehow I managed to waste all 300 septims from the last job Aela gave me_ .   
“Sure,” she said before her brain could think otherwise, “rounds are on me.”   
  
Those words came with an ease that would’ve frightened her two weeks ago. But after Sovngarde, after Alduin—the familiar doubts swirled in her head. What was her purpose now? Nothing. What did she have to do? Nothing. Her mind wandered to the hidden septims in Tundra House. She could buy a marketful of mead with that, mead by the crate...   
  
“ _Splen_ -did!” Sam crowed, waving one arm high in the air for Hulda. “Hey, a round for me and my friend here.” The innkeeper gave Tharya a look that sat somewhere between bewildered and disappointed. _That’s right. Disappointment._ She watched the woman’s eyes tear themselves away as she went about filling the two mugs. Disappointment, fresh and crisp. Newfound disappointment. Nevertheless, Hulda brought over a stein, and handed it to Sam.   
“You already have one, Dragonborn,” she said, gesturing to the mostly untouched one on the little circular table between the two chairs.   
“Very nice! Well, cheers to us!” Sam’s high-pitched laughter filled the tavern to occupy the spaces and create ghostly patrons around the fireplace. They touched their steins and then drank accordingly. He was a fast drinker, she noted, watching his throat bob from the corner of her eye.   
  
With a slam he set the stein down a good fifteen seconds before she did, watching her drink with a grin.   
“You got one of those throat reflexes?” He questioned, and she stared at him. “Damn shame. You weren’t made for drinking, my friend, but it is a noble profession.” He gestured for Hulda. “Once you’ve worked as much as I have, thing opens like a sinkhole.” The words were accompanied by a wink she wasn’t entirely sure how to react to.   
  
The second round came and Tharya fixed her eye on the ale. Another cheers. Sam beat her once more, but not by as much this time.   
“Hey, hey!” He paused to let out an obnoxious burp. “You’re getting better at this, Dragonborn!” _Dragonborn?_ She hadn’t introduced herself as the Dragonborn, had she? Maybe...but she’d never seen him around Whiterun before, and everyone in the city knew practically everyone else. He had to be a traveler. _Dragonborn._ She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came, no thoughts formed. He waved to Hulda again and the third round came to them. What would this be, her sixth drink?   
  
This time she missed his tankard when he held it out for a third tap, and he laughed boisterously. The Bannered Mare swam around her, the small fire dancing and stretching and growing when she looked at it. The floorboards bent as perfectly as ocean waves, cresting and splashing onto themselves.   
“Hey, friend! You haven’t touched yours,” Sam’s voice rang heavy and clear in her ears. When she turned to him, her ribs quickly losing their stiffness, “come on, aren’t you gonna drink?” _Disappointment._ No, gods, she couldn’t take more disappointment. Not another one. No one else.   
“Yeah,” she muttered, watching the room slowly complete a revolution around her. It began another as she lifted the stein to her lips, hands trembling. It took both of them to steady it. Halfway through her throat closed and she choked, sputtered, lowered the tankard. Sam clapped her on the back, which did nothing to help her burning lungs.   
  
“Come on, my friend,” vaguely she felt his hands on her arms, pulling her up to stand. She staggered and clumsily walked into his chest. “Oh, yes. I think you’ve definitely earned the staff, Dragonborn.” Staff? Dragonborn? Who was the Dragonborn? Her staff...where was her staff? Sam found her glazed eyes and patted her shoulders.   
  
“Now, let’s go spread some good ole-fashioned _merriment_ , shall we?”

* * *

**_STARTED: A NIGHT TO REMEMBER_ **

* * *

In the rafters of the Temple of Kynareth, there was a bird singing. Anari had spotted the nest only a few weeks ago, and had left it alone then. The chirping was serene, somehow, and added to the lightness of the Temple itself. Outside the sun was high, approaching noon, no doubt; Fjurkin had left some time ago, despite his desperate want to stay. But it was best that way. Best for Tharya.  
  
With a sigh Anari perched lightly on the wooden pallet her daughter lay on, cushioned by a soft fur pelt and with a small pillow under her head. Tharya had become a hermit after her return from Sovngarde. Freana had left vegetables for her and she had not taken them, even after a week. Jorstus had knocked, even Lofrek had gone. But there was never a response. Gathering as a family without her felt wrong, but they had to do it; they had to find out what was happening, when Tharya herself would not be the one to tell them. Knight was still in the stable, so she had to be here—but where was she, if not home?   
  
Here, lying in the Temple of Kynareth, was her answer.   
  
“Ma?”

A croaking voice alerted Anari to the young woman on the wood bed, and she reached out to grasp Tharya’s hand between her own. Her daughter blinked against the sunlight and groggily raised a hand to block it out, moaning as she slowly drew her legs up. From across the temple someone huffed, and the sound of robes rustling in a fast-paced and purposeful stride reached Tharya’s ears. For once she regretted her lycanthropy and keen hearing; the _swish, swish_ of Danica’s clothes sounded like thunder to her already pounding head.   
  
“I will always respect you and what you did for this temple,” the woman began sternly, “and for Skyrim. But I must say, Dragonborn, you’ve got quite some nerve pulling stunts like you did last night. Don’t you know you have an image to maintain?” Tharya let Anari help her into a sitting position, still using one hand to block the light from her eyes. Her mother gave her a sympathetic smile.   
“Do you remember?” Anari asked, her voice gentle.   
“Uh,” the Dragonborn hesitated, “no.”   
“Here,” Danica handed her a piece of folded paper, and then dropped a sack by the pallet. Carefully she unfolded it, and scrawled in near illegible handwriting was a short message:

_We need the giant’s toe, holy water, and Hagraven feathers to fix the staff!_ _  
_ _  
_ _~ Sam_

Giant’s toe, holy water...Hagraven feather? What kind of ungodly concoction could she have possibly planned to make with those?  
  
“I asked Arcadia what exactly you were planning to make with those ingredients,” Danica crossed her arms tightly, nodding to the note as if it were a pit of snakes. “She couldn’t think of a single thing.”   
“What’s this about a staff, sweetheart?” Anari reached for Tharya’s arm—the moment her fingers landed on the sleeve of her shirt a shock tore through her system, abrasive and...and _sad._ She stared at her daughter, all words tuned out as Tharya spoke with Danica to try and repair whatever damage she’d caused. Sad. Why was she sad? No, it was more than that. _Empty._ She _had_ been sad, but no longer; it was replaced with an overwhelming nothingness. There was no desire. No passion. Tharya, of all her children, had once burned so brightly, so intensely. A far cry from her twin. A far cry from Freana and Jorstus. But now...there was naught but a spark left in her.   
  
“Ma?” Gently the Dragonborn pried her mother’s fingers off her arm. She recognized that look. Anari only got that glazed look in her eyes when she was reading someone, feeling their emotions, looking right into their soul.   
“Are you alright, sweetheart?” The question hung between them like wood dampened by rain, heavy and slick. Usually after disconnecting from someone their feelings disappeared, but Tharya’s lingered the way the heat from a burn did. Emptiness. A painful loneliness that she couldn’t begin to describe...   
  
What on Nirn could’ve possibly hurt her so?   
  
“I suggest you speak to Ysolda,” Danica was saying, pushing Tharya’s staff into her hands as she swung her legs off the pallet. “I think you made some kind of deal with her.”   
“Yeah, thanks,” she mumbled. “I’m really sorry, Danica.”   
The priestess was silent for a moment before clasping her hands against her chest. “I only hope you know what such incidents will do to your reputation, Dragonborn.” She sighed. “I wouldn’t want it sullied by this one night.” Tharya nodded again, letting the woman’s words register in her head before leaning on her staff.   
“Alright. Thanks,” she said again.   
“Let me come with you,” Anari hopped to her feet, winding her arm with Tharya’s—partially for support and partially to shield her from any more of Danica’s stern warnings. Together the two women exited the Temple of Kynareth at a slow pace, the fresh air overwhelming Tharya’s hazy senses.   
  
Outside the sun was past solar noon and was beginning to retire from its zenith in the blue, cloudless sky. The Dragonborn wanted to shield her eyes from it but settled for squinting, further irritating the tenderness in her head. Whatever pain came of this, she was certain she deserved. The marketplace was not as full as it would’ve been a few hours ago. With Second Seed upon them, the crops of the post-winter transitory months were being replaced in farms around the Hold with seeds of the true spring fruits and vegetables. Soon potatoes, beans, carrots would be lining the stalls, and things like cabbage and asparagus would lose their place.   
  
“Tharya?” She hadn’t even heard Anari speak to her, but now the Nord tore her eyes off the few souls mingling around the market to look at her mother. Together their feet scraped to a stop near the well in the center of it all, and Anari put her hands once more on her daughter’s shoulders. “Are you alright?”   
“What, me?” She shrugged. “Yeah, I’m alright, Ma. Just tired.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Exhaustion clung to her very bones even now, even after a day’s worth of sleep.   
“Have you been drinking, before this?” The question struck her like a hand to the face, swift and furious and knocking all other thoughts from her head. _Have you been drinking?_ Drinking, staring, sitting. _Sovngarde._   
“No, Ma, I-”   
“Dragonborn!” A chipper female voice interrupted her fumbling explanation and Anari slowly let go of her. Tharya clasped her trembling hands together and painted what she hoped was a convincing smile on her face. Ysolda sauntered closer, trotting down the steps of the Bannered Mare. She had never been anything but kind, yet Tharya couldn’t help but envy the easy sway of her hips, the flawless natural beauty she held, the fullness of her figure and her bright attitude. It made her, Dragonborn or not, shy away in her warpaint, with her short nails, her near nonexistent curves. “You don’t already have my money, do you?”   
  
Tharya blanched. Money? What money?   
  
“Oh, um...Ysolda. I was hoping to talk to you about that,” she said, rubbing her wrist. The woman opposite her raised a trim eyebrow.   
“I’ll be patient as I can, but we had an agreement,” she warned.   
“Of course! Of course, I’m not, uh. Backing out or anything. I just...”   
Ysolda shifted her weight to one hip. “Did the engagement fall through?” Anari gave her daughter a little tug.   
“Yes, it did,” the healer nodded once, putting on a frown, “very unfortunately. So perhaps...?”   
“Fine,” Ysolda said lightly, “after all, we can’t control that. Just bring back the wedding ring, okay? And we’ll call it even.” _Wedding ring_ . Who exactly had she planned on marrying?   
Tharya nodded. “Yes, alright. That seems fair.”   
“Really, that’s a shame. You said you’d have the most interesting guests,” the merchant giggled, “though I’m not certain about the location. Rorikstead doesn’t seem very glamorous.” Rorikstead. How in Talos’s name had she gotten to Rorikstead in one night? It was at least five days away on horseback, three with hard riding and minimal stops. And she didn’t remember ever going to the stables last night, though she didn’t remember much—even so, it didn’t change the distance between Whiterun and Rorikstead. A name flashed across the forefront of her mind, the same name from the note: _Sam._ Who was Sam...? Where was he in all this?   
  
“Dragonborn?” Ysolda was peering at her curiously as she stared over the redhead’s shoulder at Belethor’s shop sign.   
“I have to go,” she said dumbly, blinking a couple times. If her head hadn’t been pounding before, it sure was now. Sam. Rorikstead, a wedding ring, and something...something about a staff? “Sorry about the ring, I promise I’ll bring it back. Rorikstead, right?” Tharya wriggled out of Anari’s grip and ignored her mother’s protests as she strode out of the market, pace quickening the farther she got to the gates. _I only hope you know what such incidents will do to your reputation, Dragonborn._ She had to get away from everything, from everyone. _I wouldn’t want it sullied by this one night._ She had to get away from mead, from the tavern, from money...

She had to get out of Whiterun.

**Fredas, 21st of Second Seed, Rorikstead**

_“You!”_   
  
The cry rang up through the midmorning as Knight loped his way below the wooden bulwark, through the open gates that led to Rorikstead. The town itself was small but bordered on all sides by farms. It claimed only a single avenue, being built up along the main road. But there were thatch-roof houses tucked beside and behind one another, some even stretching as far as the hill on the left side, an inn with a large storeroom attached to the back, and a few shops further down. But the shout came from the right, from the first farm tucked within the bulwark, from an infuriated Redguard man who was gripping his fence.   
  
“You, woman! You’ve got a lot of nerves showing your face round here again,” he sneered as Tharya drew Knight closer to the fence, not too close, and then dismounted as she gripped the reins. “Explain yourself before I call the guards down on you, you _wretch._ ” She winced at the words and reached out to pat Knight’s neck when he tossed his head.   
“Let’s not be hasty,” she tried to placate the man, “I don’t remember-”   
“Excuse! Bah! Your excuses are nothing to me,” he stomped one foot in the dirt. “You and that good-for-nothing friend of yours made off with my Gelda! The nerve!”   
“Gelda?”   
“My prize goat, bitch!” Another wince. She took a step back. “I can’t believe you, coming back here.”   
“Hey, please, let’s-”   
“No!” Another stomp; his foot was creating a rut in the dirt, with soil building on both sides. “Bring my goat back, or you’ll wish it was the guards who got you!” That threat—so specific, so unnerving—sent chills down her spine. Normally it was spoken by outraged men past their prime in both blade and farming, but it had no bite behind it. The guards were law, and anyone who tried to enforce their own law got thrown in the dungeons too. But no, when this Redguard spoke it, when this _farmer_ spoke it, it was icy, full of hate, full of _promise._ Somehow Rorikstead had always made her feel on edge, always made the hair on her arms raise, and this was no different.   
“At least tell me which way I went with your goat,” she pleaded meekly, and the man crossed his arms. “That way I can get her back.”   
He dug his foot into the soil before snatching his hoe off the fence, as if her mere presence sullied it.   
  
“I don’t know where you took her, but when I saw, you were running off for that old monument.”   
  
Four days she’d been on this goose chase. Four days. As she mounted her horse again and directed him back under the wall, the weight of exhaustion and emptiness crept back into her body. Four days. She had not been able to pack much, for fear of her mother trying to stop her. And there had not been a drop of mead. The food didn’t concern her—her appetite had all but vanished. Sometimes her hands shook too much to hold the reins properly, but regardless Knight tread on. Sometimes her head spun and swam within itself so much the road ahead warped and danced, and sometimes she had to topple off her horse to try and empty her stomach by the side of the road, even though nothing ever came. She had nothing in her body to give; her blood had been replaced by alcohol, and now even that was gone. She had nothing in her body to give.

  
Gjukar’s Monument, as she remembered it was called, rose from the fields west of Rorikstead like a solitary stone finger. There was a tattered flag drifting atop it, nothing more than patches of fabric and straggling threads, held in place by a small boulder placed on the monument’s flattened top. She had heard ghost stories before, and once, years ago, had seen said ghosts with her own eyes. There was a woman who wandered here at night, a woman who combed desperately through the dead grass and called for someone. A lost husband, brother or son. Tharya didn’t know who Gjukar was, nor why there was a monument in a lonesome field west of Rorikstead. The carvings on the sides of the stone weren’t much help either. Most were worn beyond recognition, and she was not scholar enough to try and discern their meanings. Even so, whenever she got close to the monument the air seemed to change, and she felt as if the atmosphere had shifted; like she was stepping through a doorway.   
  
A sharp noise brought her out of her trance, where her shoulders and body had slumped forward in the saddle. Knight didn’t seem startled by it, and when her eyes fell on the monument she saw why; there was a single goat lying in the matted yellow grass. It saw Knight veer tiredly off the road towards where it lay and bleated again, louder, getting to its feet.   
“You must be Gelda,” Tharya grumbled. “My pleasure.” The goat got to her feet and instead of approaching, bent her head to chew on the brush. “Hey, Gelda, we aren’t waiting for your lunch break to end, alright?” The Last Dragonborn hopped off her horse and reached for Gelda, who shrieked and jumped away. “Really? Come on.” She followed after the goat who actively avoided her, bleating again and jumping around the monument. “Look, Gelda,” Tharya snipped. “I really don’t have time for this—oof!” She tripped and fell directly into the monument, smacking her head against the stone. With a groan she stood and rubbed at her brow...   
  
Only to find she wasn’t in Rorikstead at all.


	7. a/n 1

hello all! i hope you're enjoying revenant so far—it feels, at least to me, like a big step away from the rest of the dragonborn era, and it's proven a challenge to write sometimes, but i love it! i'm almost done writing part one, which means within in the next month or so all of it will be posted (it's about 10 chapters).

but FUN NEWS, i recently created a writing account on tumblr so y'all can come follow and interact if you want! the link is [**HERE.**](https://aure-lius.tumblr.com/post/632261076664352768/directory)

(assuming it works)  
  
i really look forward to interacting with y'all! the blog is relatively new (literally made it less than 10 minutes ago) so i'm still setting it up, but feel free to send in asks, submissions, etc etc. i'm excited!

without further ado, here's chapter 5, i think :^)


	8. V. A Chance Meeting

“Jeez Louise,” Tharya groaned, gently feeling the bump on her forehead as she straightened up. As she did, a world entirely different from the scenery of Rorikstead met her eyes. A forest, dense but not overcrowded, bathed in the golden haze of a sunset. Tall pines swayed gently around their tops in an unfelt breeze. Above her, the sky seemed to be split evenly between evening and dusk, with vibrant clouds painted by the setting sun seeping into the cool grey stars and vice versa, blurring the boundary between them. The air was pleasantly warm, and not far off to her left there was a stone path leading through the smattering of trees...  
  
“We’ve been cheesed.”   
  
Turning around, she saw that Knight was also here with her, but seemed content enough to munch on the healthy grass growing. Well, it looked harmless. She didn’t smell anything bad either. At worst, this was a dream, and somehow her _horse_ had also been brought here with her. Unless he, too, was a figment of the imagination.   
“Hey, handsome,” she moved towards Knight and pat his neck as he happily devoured the grass. He raised his head for a moment, looked around, and then huffed in approval before going back to eating. “Any idea where we are?” Had the monument somehow brought her here? Her eyes followed the path and with a tug of the reins her feet did too, Knight coming obediently to her side. The trees gave way to a wide, gurgling river with a flat stone bridge lying across it, devoid of any hand rails on either side. She squinted at it before crossing. There was a waterfall a couple hundred yards upstream, cascading down what looked to be a sheer cliff. There was a building on top of that cliff, though. Was there a path up?   
  
“Maybe that’s where we have to go,” Tharya murmured to herself, glancing again up to the house—at least, she thought it was a house. “What do you think? Is that our final destination?” She looked to Knight who merely tossed his head in reply. Deciding it was, the Dragonborn crossed the bridge and followed the path back off the riverbank into the forest. 

  
  


**Tirdas, 26th of Frostfall, 4E 207, 11:56 P.M.**

“Just a moment,” Miraak cut her off before she could resume. “That bridge...” the wide, flat stone bridge in the Misty Grove, with the waterfall upstream...he remembered it vividly. “That is the part of the Misty Grove that you and I were in, after—”  
“The dragonmark incident,” she finished for him, nodding slowly. “Yeah. I didn’t realize it then, but, later on...” Tharya trailed off, trying to block the memory of Apocrypha, the second time, from resurfacing.   
“That is the bridge where you said you hated me,” he said with an odd touch of amused pride in his voice, a grin toying with his lips. 

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, that’s a good thing, is it?” Part of her was glad to see he didn’t appear to be lingering on the events that had brought them to the bridge in the first place. Very quickly that assumption was proved wrong as he reached for her hands across the table. Plates had long since been pushed aside and Runa had been asleep between their feet for gods know how long. What time even was it? “Miraak, if you’re going to apologize again, I’ll kick you in the nuts.”  
  
“You know I must,” he said morosely, rubbing her knuckles. “My conscience will always demand it of me.”   
She sighed. “Well, let your conscience rest for a night.” He didn’t like it, and he never would, but as a sign of truce the Atmoran lifted her knuckles to his lips. “You asked for this story,” she poked his knee under the table, attempting a smile.   
“Yes, and I am your captive audience. Do continue.”

  
  


**Fredas, 21st of Second Seed, 4E 202**

  
Overhead in the Grove, birds sang and chirped back and forth in secret but jubilant conversations, speaking their truth into the perpetual dusk. She and Knight plodded on together quietly, heads swinging back and forth to examine the landscape and the forest. Some of the stones of the path were half-buried in the soil and brush, but others were laid firm atop the ground.   
  
“Wait, shh.” Tharya stopped abruptly and Knight did too, ears cocked to listen. A bout of happy laughter rose from the cover of the trees, floating into the evening before dissipating under with the clatter of tankards. The house on the hill, it had to be. Continuing on the path they passed through a small grove, and then through a wide field. There were a few shacks scattered around a small pond, a rickety wooden dock jutting out into it. A pair of boats floating separate from one another with fishermen lounging in them graced the top of the water. Beyond them, on the dry ground, was a campfire of men and women alike sharing drinks and laughter. Not a single person seemed to notice her.   
  
Across the field on the right side was a knoll that grew into a hill, with a well-traveled dirt path that led up it. The hill itself was a smooth, gradual slope, none too hard on the knees. In fact, it was a pleasant walk. Voices rose steadily in volume the farther up she went, and finally, as the hill crested it leveled out to a flat plane. There was indeed a house here, a medium-sized log cabin with its doors flung open to let in the fresh air. Beyond the table was a glassy river that no doubt led to the waterfall. There were picnic tables scattered around a grizzly firepit, and both men and women lingered here too, drinking, laughing, telling stories, playing cards. Men and women of all races, but that wasn’t what interested her. What interested her were the _Dremora._   
  


Beings of no particular gender, except any they proclaimed, with skin shades ranging from pale, ashy grey to a color close to black. Most wore red silk or light clothes, and were lounging with men and women tucked under their arms and into their sides in a way that said _this is who I’m bedding tonight, so go find your own._ There was one, though, one that seemed to be the center of it all. Somehow involved in the drinking _and_ the gambling _and_ the storytelling _and_ the tending of the fire. The only one who seemed to spot her as she and Knight came up the path and stood there, dumbly watching the scene before them.   
  
“Dragonborn!”   
  
There was a brief lull in chatter as all eyes looked up to acknowledge her, but as the Dremora—with middle grey skin, and longish hair that curled around his pointed ears—approached, the noise picked up again. This Dremora wasn’t wearing anything except what looked to be a silky red loincloth, held around their hips by a belt of...black thorns? A pair of curved horns jutted back from their hairline and circled at the sides of their head, and there were intricate red markings over their face. She assumed it to be warpaint at first glance, but the closer they came, it looked to be part of their skin.   
  
“Can you tell me where I am?” She asked, gripping Knight’s reins in both hands. “I was just in Rorikstead and...somehow ended up here.” The Dremora tossed their head back to laugh. They were tall, but not too tall.   
“Oh, Dragonborn, the night we had was _monumentous_ ,” the Dremora crowed, and then slung an arm around her shoulders. “Get it? Get it? _Monument_ ous!”   
“I’m looking for someone named Sam Guevenne,” she went on as they led her towards the party. The Dremora paused and then looked at her, raising a dark eyebrow. “If you can point me to him, I’ll be on my way.”   
“But _Dragonborn,_ ” the being in front of her shifted and malformed before the grey skin disappeared, hair and eyes becoming a human’s, a man with bleary eyes wearing black robes. “I _am_ Sam.” Tharya blinked. “Let me spell it out for you, sweetness,” in a second the Dremora was back to normal. “I am _him._ My name is Sanguine,” he said with a grand flourish, “Daedric Prince of having a helluva good time.”   
  
From behind, there was a bout of applause.   
  
“And _you_ , my friend, sure know how to! I haven’t had that much fun in a century,” Sanguine laughed and clapped her shoulder again. “I think you’ve definitely earned the staff.” Sam Guevenne. San-guine. There was that talk about the staff again. What staff? “Come on, Dragonborn,” Sanguine smiled toothily at her, “I think we could be friends, you and I. And that’s a compliment,” he staggered with her towards the group of people waiting, gesturing to a spot at the fire that had been strangely cleared for the two of them. The rest of the Dremora didn’t even eye her as they walked by. One stood and offered to take Knight, who gave her a fearful look, but didn’t object when she patted his side and he was led away. 

  
“Um...what is this place?” She asked as she and the Daedric Prince sat together on a half-hewn log, the wood surprisingly smooth under her fingers. A nameless Altmer pushed steins into both their hands, and someone else set bowls of hot stew at their sides.   
“Oh, just one of my little creations,” Sanguine said with a playful smirk, ticking his head from side to side. “One of my _Myriad Realms of Revelry_ , if you will.” The Myriad Realms? She didn’t know much about Daedra besides what she’d read in books, or heard from passing Vigilants who barked out the word of Stendarr at any passerby. The Myriad Realms...there were hundreds of them, maybe even a thousand, each catered to the tastes of Sanguine’s followers.   
“So what’s this one called?” Her stomach rumbled loudly as a crisp breeze brought the scent of the stew to her nose, and the Prince chuckled.   
“Eat up, sweetness. As long as you’re here that tankard and bowl are yours,” he winked, “they’ll refill whenever you want ‘em to.”

Her stomach flipped. Endless mead...?  
  
“As for where you are,” Sanguine moved his arm in a wide arch. “Welcome, my friend, to the Misty Grove.”

  
  


**Loredas, 5th of Midyear  
**

**So...Oblivion. I’ve spent the last, like, two weeks, in Oblivion.** **  
****  
****Gotta admit, this place is pretty nice. Definitely not what I pictured when I think of literal hell, though Sanguine did show me a couple of the other Realms. The Arena, for one, and then one called The Bathing Grounds...there was a lot of orgies going on, all at the same time, and I really wasn’t prepared for that amount of human nakedness. I asked if these people should be Dibellan followers, maybe, but from the explanation I was given it sounds like they’re less “ooh sexy times” and more “I crave sex to survive as a sentient and living sack of flesh”. So, yeah.**

 **  
****Other than that it’s been great. The Grove is really nice, and seems endless. Mostly I’ve just been hanging around with Sanguine, believe it or not. There’s also some trails that are good for riding, so Knight and I have been going out on those. I want to swim a little but there’s always people in the river, and most of the time they forgot their clothes. Sometimes at night everyone falls asleep, so maybe, if I stay long enough today, I can go for a swim. I’m not sure I will though. It’s been great, being able to eat** ~~**and drink.** ~~ **so much. But I should get back to the waking world. Tsun was worried about me spending too much time in Sovngarde, and even though Sanguine hasn’t said anything like that I’m sure it’s the same here. But of course he wouldn’t say anything, he’s a Daedra.**

**The mead has been...I don’t know. It feels like it takes a lot to get drunk, but then once you are...it’s like you don’t remember anything from the night before? Or even the day? Maybe that’s a thing about the Grove. The people here seem so carefree, so happy, despite the fact they do more or less the same thing day after day. I don’t even want to know how much alcohol I’ve had since I got here. I need to stop somewhere.**

“Dragonborn?” A voice floated through the trees, drawing her attention away from the journal. Quickly she tucked the pencil inside and closed the cover, placing it in her shadow next to her. Sanguine entered the little clearing across from her, another goofy smile on his face. “Enjoying the paths, I see?” A few yards away Knight was grazing contentedly on the grass, his saddle and bridle removed for now. She didn’t even know how long she’d been sitting here—the sky, hanging in the delicate balance between sunset and dusk, was no indicator of time.  
“Yeah,” Tharya replied, nodding. “They really go everywhere. I thought I’d done them all when this one appeared.” Sanguine mirrored her nod slowly.   
“Ah. The Grove has a way of keeping its occupants entertained,” he gestured to the open spot beside her and she scooted over a bit, pushing the journal farther out of sight. The Daedra sat heavily with a sigh beside her, his back to the tree trunk. “So, I usually wouldn’t tell you this, but...I don’t know. I like you.” He laughed at that. “But you really shouldn’t stay here much longer. Since you’re still living and all...well, if you weren’t the Dragonborn, maybe I’d like to keep you. But you are, and you gotta lot of big important Dragonborn stuff to do out there, sweetness.”   
  
Tharya watched him speak in silence, listening to each word carefully. He was sending her back? Well, not entirely. He was telling her the circumstances. The truth. And that...was more than she expected from a Daedric Prince.   
“Do you know what?”   
He laughed. “No, sweetness, even I, a lowly Daedra, can’t reveal that to you. But there is...there are things for you. And no one can really contend with the Big Daddy.” She raised an eyebrow. “Akatosh,” he clarified with a wink. “The last thing I possibly need is the granddaddy of all Divines storming into the Myriad Realms and breaking everything,” Sanguine rolled his eyes and gesticulated dramatically as he spoke. “So...I gotta give him back his golden child.”   
“Oh, come on,” she laughed, “I can’t be the golden child. That’s gotta be...Talos, or something.”   
The Daedra hopped to his feet. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first kid he’s abandoned in Oblivion.” He extended his grey hands to her and she stood with his help, bending to pick the journal up. He didn’t even look at it. “I sent that letter to your mommy dearest, you know, the one saying you’re alive and such. And that ring back to the cute redhead from Whiterun,” he grinned slowly.   
“Ysolda?”   
“Yeah, her. There was no ring to begin with, but,” a shrug, “I just made one up and sent it on its way. She’ll get it soon.”   
“Thanks, really,” Tharya smiled at him. “It’s a big help. Especially since I don’t remember a thing from that...night.”   
Sanguine threw his head back to laugh. “Those are the best kind of nights, aren’t they?”   
  
Tharya glanced downwards. The best kind of nights.   
  
“Yeah,” she said with a forced chuckle, “best kind.”

* * *

Drajkmyr Marsh was a sweaty, soggy labyrinth of its own making, a sluggish basin of bogs, a single swamp, and countless murky streams and tiny islands of wet earth. Surrounded, more or less, by mountains, it was worst in spring and summer, when it rained constantly and the snowmelt came down from the mountains, and then the heat rolled in to make it stink to high hell. There wasn’t exactly a road through the marsh; the only road went through Morthal, a pessimistic little town nestled directly in the filth, full of pessimistic little people and a Jarl who spoke only in dreams and foretellings.

Unfortunately for Tharya, Second Seed marked the beginning, more or less, of that odd fusion season of spring-summer. She didn’t remember how many days she’d been traveling through the marsh; her legs were beginning to hurt, but the alcohol was quickly getting rid of that and turning them numb. She’d bypassed Morthal completely, passing closer towards the Reach borders, around the mountains, and then followed the River Hjaal until it drained into the heart of the marsh. Sanguine had left her with enough food to last, gods, maybe two weeks out here on her own. She didn’t know where she was going, simply letting her feet move without sending any signals to her brain about direction or intention. A headache had been swirling in her skull for however long now, quelled only by mead, and though she had plenty of food her appetite disappeared day by day. At night it was impossible to sleep. The ground felt so _mushy_ , so _alive_ . It drove baseless fear deep into her bones and gripped her until dawn.   
  
But the sun was setting now, and she was most likely nearing the River Karth judging by the clearness of the water. There were even a few fish darting about, small though they were. Rocks disguised as mudcrabs and mudcrabs disguised as rocks dotted the banks, and as the high, immensely distant peaks of the Druadachs poked into the underbelly of the setting sun, she sloshed through the shallow water towards one of the bigger islands. There was a barren, ancient looking tree growing on it, bent by the wind like a hand with slanted fingers. She didn’t think it would rain tonight, so it would do just fine as shelter.   
  
The island was made of firmer stuff than the ones from previous nights, though she hadn’t been doing much sleeping. The grass actually crunched when she stepped onto it, healthy and reaching her ankles. Without a thought she tossed her pack down and threw out her bedroll, reaching for the bottle of mead she’d been slowly nursing throughout the evening. For the aches, she told herself. Just the aches. 

**Sometime in Second Seed?**

**I’m not entirely certain how long I’ve been wandering. Maybe a handful of days? Week? Hard to tell. Ran into some damn Imperials on the road who asked me for** **_papers_ ** **. The hell I need papers for? I saved their sorry asses anyway. Saved their sorry war from going up in dragonfire. They let me go since I said I was the** **_Dragonborn_ ** **, and only after I Shouted for them. Figures people don’t know who I am. Figures.**

That was all she found the strength to write. Recalling the encounter with the Imperials made her stomach and blood churn in disgust and anger—not for them, per se. Not for them as Imperial soldiers. Just...them. They didn’t even recognize her. Just stopped her like a normal citizen.

_Listen to yourself_ , she snorted, **_normal citizen._ ** _You are a normal citizen, idiot._

But she had made them stop fighting, hadn’t she? She had said she needed free passage across the lands to defeat Alduin, and after some graceless political dancing she’d obtained it. A truce in the war. A truce Skyrim sorely needed. An end to Stormcloak horrors and Imperial martial rule. She didn’t need to put an official end to the truce; it would crumble on its own, she knew that, she always had. The Imperials and Stormcloaks alike couldn’t care less about whatever authority Tharya had. Whatever guise of power she’d used to bring them together all that time ago had crumbled the moment she had saved all their damn useless lives.

  
  


The next day the aches were back, this time spreading slowly through her knee joints and into her hips and lower back. She forced herself to walk with them for some time before pulling out another bottle around noon. Just to dull the aches. Just to keep her feet moving. Knight plodded along silently, having spent some of the night grazing on what little grass he could and the rest of it sleeping while she sat awake, staring up at the stars through the tree branches. As they walked along, crossing the spotty river to the left bank when they could, she became acutely aware just how _alone_ they were. She was. No one but her horse to keep her company, her horse and her drink. The marsh buzzed around her, sure, but that noise had faded into her ears days ago. Now there was just an eerie, unwelcome silence beneath the heavy tread of Knight’s hooves and her staggered walking patterns.   
  
“Dragonborn!”   
  
She jumped so hard the bottle fell directly from her hand and rolled down the bank to the water’s edge, its contents spilling and staining the water brown. Immediately she readjusted her grip on her staff—which had been repurposed as a walking stick in recent days—and swung it around, only to stop.   
“Sanguine?” Knight tossed his head judgmentally, one round eye settling on her.   
“The one and only!” The Daedra beamed at her, circling the horse to stand at her side. “Aw, don’t tell me you forgot about Uncle Sanguine already!” _Uncle...?_   
“Um, no.” Tharya replied hoarsely, curling her fingers into Knight’s bridle. “No. Hi, Sanguine.” He eyed her and then shrugged, and merrily started walking again.   
“What’s new with you, sweetness? Haven’t heard much lately. It’s been a while,” he rattled on.   
“Has it?”   
“Nearly two weeks.”   
  
Two weeks. She’d been out here for two weeks.   
“Sorry about that,” Tharya said, skipping a bit to keep up with him. “I guess I just lost track of time.”

The day dragged on with Sanguine at her side, chattering away. Half the time she wasn’t paying attention to what he was saying, but instead watching the ground pass below her feet in a way that made it look like she was gliding. When she looked up every now and again severe dizziness struck behind her eyes, swaying her steps, making her legs burn. The sun crawled up from behind them, and then bore down onto her scalp before making its traverse slowly back down over the piercing Druadachs far to the west.   
  
“Everything alright, sweetness?” Sanguine asked after an unusually long bout of silence, bending down to peek through the curtain of her hair as it hung around her tilted head. “You seem quiet.”   
“It’s lonely out here,” she said suddenly, “I’m lonely.” Having spoken the words a rush of embarrassment filled her. _I’m lonely._ How childish. But her lips couldn’t seem to stop. “I want someone to just talk to, you know? Someone who...who enjoys being with me.”

"Well, maybe if you didn't talk to your horse like a crazy old lady all the time, you'd have enough breath to actually go speak to someone." Sanguine said, swinging his arms as they walked. Tharya rolled her eyes. 

"Why should I give things I like up just to take time out of my day to be disappointed?" 

"Who said you'd be disappointed?" The Daedra raised an eyebrow. "When's the last time you even tried to get yourself laid?" 

"This isn't about that!" The Last Dragonborn hit his arm. "Besides." There was a long silence and above them the birds chirped their last songs of the evening, the ruddy purple sun sinking ever lower behind the mountains. 

"Besides?" Sanguine prodded. "Besides what? You took a vow of celibacy, became a nun while I wasn't looking?" 

"No, you dumbass," Tharya sighed, reaching over to pat Knight's dappled grey nose affectionately. "I just think...I think I should maybe look after myself for a little while." 

"The hell is that supposed to mean?" 

She groaned. "It means I can't just have sex with absolutely anyone to make myself feel better about my shitty life," she bit back. "It's not healthy." 

The Prince laughed. "When did you become a psychologist?" 

"Ugh, I knew you wouldn't understand." She looked away from him, eyes trained on the horizon dead ahead of them. Sanguine examined her face; she seemed...serious. Had someone said something to her? "Well...you don't put yourself out there a whole lot," he said gently, "no one can love you if you don't give them a chance to." 

"I've already done enough for this damned country," her voice was bitter now. He'd turned her mood sour. "Just add that to the list of things they'll never do for me." 

"It's okay to be lonely." 

"I don't need relationship advice, Sanguine, but thank you." Tharya said flatly, pausing her feet to pull her cloak off Knight's back, fit it around her shoulders and swing herself into the saddle.

He watched her spur the dappled grey steed into a trot, crossing through one of the smaller puddles without so much as a care, pack bumping against her spine. She was heading for Solitude, and had been for days. What could possibly be in Solitude waiting for her? And she looked terrible. He hadn’t said anything about it, for fear of upsetting her, but the bags around her eyes were jarring, her expression gaunt and lifeless. He thought back to the morning, to the bottle of mead she’d been holding. Sanguine, of all people, didn’t usually care _when_ the drinking happened as long as there _was_ drinking, but he knew mortals had some pretty nifty little social constructs about it. And drinking in the morning...   
  
“Well, whatever’s in Solitude, I hope it’s good for you, sweetness,” the Daedric Prince sighed, and then turned on his heel and vanished.

  
  


**Middas, 20th of Midyear, 4E 202**

Tharya spent the ride uphill towards the looming figure of Solitude wondering why exactly her feet had brought her here, of all places they could’ve gone. Perhaps it was the Imperial blood in her; her father, Fjurkin, was half Imperial, and his side of the family consisted of a gaggle of wealthy merchants and scholars, stretching all around Cyrodiil. Her grandparents used to own a summer home in Solitude, called Proudspire Manor, where she and her siblings would spend the season. It was how she’d met her closest friend decades ago, when they were both children, and it had been some good pocket money for her and Lofrek to run around helping dockworkers when they were old enough.  
  
 _The docks_ . Maybe that’s why she had come. As recent as her college years, she, Lofrek, and Lilika had spent summers with their grandparents, but a year ago—two, by now—Grandpa Arl and Gram Marie had moved back to Cyrodiil, just before the outbreak of the war. The summer before the one that found her bound and gagged in a cart moving towards Helgen had been their last in Skyrim.   
  


There was a small district lining the road that led directly up to the main gates of Solitude, mostly shops, a waystation, and a cheap tavern that she knew served horrible stew. Closer to the gates there was a long stable that only held horses for a day at most, suitable for quick trips, and charged outrageous prices. But she didn’t take that road; instead, Tharya guided Knight towards the right, where the path split around a towering stone wall. Down past Katla’s farm and towards a pair of squatty towers with a large, wide archway between them, ironically called the High-Gate. Through the High-Gate was the wharf.   
  
The wharf, in some respects, was the true heart of Solitude. Here people toiled and worked day in and day out, resting only holidays, and even then not all of them. Things like Second Planting or Harvest’s End were celebrated mostly in places like Falkreath, Whiterun, and maybe even the Reach, where farms were prominent. Hjaalmarch was half marsh and half mountain range, so the port was truly the center of focus. The same could be said for Dawnstar, northeast along the coastline. And the wharf lived up to its lively reputation: houses, a pair of inns, and a chapel dedicated to Mara lined the left side, pressed between the street and the rockface, and on the right were shops, stalls, and warehouses. A small set of steps led down into an open-air market right on the waterfront. Down the length of the road and hidden in the shadow of the Arch was the Low-Gate, and beyond that was mostly residential.   
  
Outside one of the inns there was a hitching rail that she left Knight attached to alongside a snooty mare, and then took off in the direction of the market. Running along the length of the wharf was a boardwalk that broke off into multiple piers; here boats would arrive and depart, and here she could hopefully find work. Even if it meant stepping onto one of the ships and letting it sail away...that didn’t sound half bad. Work was what she was after, work was what she needed to find. Purpose. Direction.

She didn’t.

The first vessel that came in was from the East Empire Company, and she lingered around the dock and let them settle before asking the workers if they needed an extra set of hands. Most of them were quick to say yes; the boat looked oddly undermanned. So she helped as much as she could, without ever stepping on the boat proper, until a supervisor came over and thwacked her upside the head and sent her off with a spiteful spitting at. The second was also East Empire Company, and blatantly turned her away as a beggar. The third was a shipment from a company in Dawnstar, a small boat, and they were unloaded in record time. She hardly even got a chance to ask. Dawnstar was deep in Stormcloak graces, so it was risky for _anyone_ to be found trading with the capital, the center of Imperial power in the province. The fourth let her help and then refused to pay, saying she had _offered_ —which wasn’t entirely wrong, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t expected anything in return. By dusk she was sunburnt and hungry, and the smell of salt and wood stuck to her like glue on one’s fingers.   
  
Four ships, and not a single septim between them. She’d been turned away as a beggar that morning, but now she was beginning to feel like one.   
  
Tharya knew she didn’t _need_ the money, not yet at least. She had some in her bandolier and her saddlebags, but it was the idea of work, of business that seemed to have enticed her all the way to the capital. And now she was here, but there was no work to be found. When she returned to Knight as the sun fell below the Druadachs, he stirred and swung his head around to find her in the encroaching darkness.   
“Nothing today,” she murmured morosely to the horse, stroking his neck before resting her forehead against his muzzle. “We’ll try again tomorrow.” She didn’t care how ridiculous she looked hugging her steed.   
  
There _were_ a couple inns here along the wharf but, if she intended to save money, the one outside the city gates was probably her better option. Tharya knew she was in no position to be picky. A bed was a bed and a meal a meal, even if the stew was closer to sludge and sat like a brick in her stomach. A drink was a drink, but...she hoped she wouldn’t be doing much drinking. With a sigh the Dragonborn unhitched her horse and made to mount, but a startlingly close voice stopped her.   
  
“Hey, stranger,” from the shadows an Argonian wandered out. The darkness seemed to stretch and conform to follow him, keeping part of his figure shaded. Warily Tharya reached for her staff, which had been hooked horizontally to the saddle. It was a wonder no one had stolen it. “Saw you hanging around the docks today. If you’re looking for good business opportunities to line your pockets...” he gave a smooth, slow shrug. “I may be of some help.”   
  
Immediately Tharya knew he was _bad._ The darkness didn’t follow anyone normal like that, and this fellow reeked of...of _something._ Something foul. Like...spoiled water, somehow. If water could go stale, and fester like a wound, and grow horrible things. Like Drajkmyr Marsh.   
“Oh?” She didn’t put the staff down. Knight dug one hoof into the soft ground.   
“Are you just passing through, stranger?” He moved closer. “Perhaps looking for an opportunity to make some coin, yes?” He wasn’t giving up. Slowly Tharya nodded.   
“Yeah, I’m looking for work.” _Real work. Legal work_ , a voice in the back of her head shouted. The Argonian smiled toothily at her, revealing rows of sharpened, yellowing teeth.   
“I bet you and I, we’re very alike. An eye for things to sell, things to find. Things no one will miss,” still he drew closer, his voice silky and somehow calming, despite the fact she knew exactly where his little proposition was going. “So why not take the next step? We can help each other, stranger.”   
  
“Tell me what it is you have in mind,” she said, with less conviction than intended. No, no, no! Why was she giving into this? Was she really going to just roll over?   
“My sister Deeja and I are treasure hunters,” the Argonian went on without skipping a beat. He _expected_ her to go along with it. She was too empty to care. “We like to collect things,” he said nonchalantly, “with the war, many more ships come through this harbor, these docks. Loaded with weapons and pay,” he made it sound as if these ships carried the lost treasures of Stros M’kai itself, “but few people.” Ah. The catch. “And the waters can be dangerous. Our interest lies in one boat, the Icerunner. The Solitude Lighthouse will be guiding it in... _but_ ,” he held up one finger, “if the light were to go out...the boat would run aground.” No, no way. There was no bone in her body that should even be _considering_ this foul plot. There was no way...no way...   
  
“So, you want me to put out the light?” She scoffed, a little louder than intended. The Argonian’s eyes brightened. Gods, he was playing her.   
“What an interesting idea, stranger. I believe, if that _were_ to happen, there would undoubtedly be a grand amount of loot to be shared...yes, yes.” He pressed closer, almost touching her, and then slid by so they stood shoulder-to-shoulder. “If someone _were_ to put out the Lighthouse fire, and meet me at the docks afterwards...I would be glad to direct them to the loot. The sailors won’t be harmed.” As he said the last words he began to walk away, giving her shoulder a hefty, friendly pat and vanishing once more into the night. The sailors...gods preserve her, she hadn’t even thought of the sailors. How could she not? They would be on the ship, the ship she was misleading into the choppy waters to run aground and be overrun by...by _bandits_ .   
  
Loot. Loot. Loot. Purpose—even something like this. All she had to do was put out a fire, a single fire. Just a fire. Fires could be relit, no problem. There, yes; she would put out the fire, and then relight it an hour later. An hour would be enough time, right?   
  
She didn’t remember mounting her horse or lifting her staff from its hold, didn’t exactly remember trotting out of the Low-Gate. Loot. Only an hour...the aches were coming back. The mead she could buy with not money, but _loot..._

* * *

**_STARTED: LIGHTS OUT!_ **

* * *

**Middas, 27th of Frostfall, 1:39 A.M.**

“I remember this,” Miraak said when she trailed off, leaning slowly back against the headboard. He was staring at nothing in particular. “This was your trial during the Break, was it not?”  
“Yeah,” Tharya whispered. “Kinda forgot you all got to see that.” A silence passed between them before the Atmoran turned his gaze on her. Even after three, nearly four years with him, his stare was still so stoic and piercing. That would probably never change. “So I guess I don’t need to tell you all about it. The guards had been paid off by Jaree-Ra...that’s the Argonian guy. So I just had to go in.”

  
More silence. After a moment Miraak sighed and rolled on his side, tugging on her knee to get her to lie down with him. Her eyes were faraway. He hadn’t intended to cause this hurt when he asked for her story, but it was obvious she didn’t enjoy remembering it. So far the events had been drab, dreary, not what he expected at all. Truthfully, he didn’t know what to expect. Tharya was an enigma to him, in many ways. One so kind and laid back did not reveal anything of her past...perhaps that was why she was always so reserved when talking about herself. She almost never did. And that translated into selflessness, admirable to a point, until it became destructive. No, he had not expected any of this, but her encounter with his statue in Skuldafn, and her spiral in this empty, lonely, immoral version of herself...that intrigued him greatly.   
  
“Well, you may skip that part then,” he murmured, letting her sigh into his chest before rubbing a hand slowly over her back. “But did you relight the fire, as intended?”   
“Ah...no.” Good—she was not so despondent she couldn’t talk about it. Skipping the gory details was helpful. “I sat around for a few hours, drank...” that, too. He had no idea how she had not died of alcohol consumption yet. For one so small—at least to him—so much to drink had to prove detrimental, if not near fatal. Affectionately he ran his hand down the gentle slope of her side, wondering briefly what his world would be if she had drunk herself to death five years ago and never set her sights on Solstheim. He wondered, too, what it would’ve been like had he made his emergence into Tamriel five years sooner. Miraak liked to think he would have spared her some of the crippling loneliness she spoke of, but he knew that wouldn’t have been the case.   
  
“To be clear, I knew it was all a setup from the start. I’m not _that_ stupid.”   
“Just a moment. You mentioned college,” Miraak remembered suddenly, straightening out a bit. “College. I did not know you went to college. In Cyrodiil?”   
“Oh, yeah,” Tharya looked up at him owlishly, “architect school, the one thing I’m good at. I dropped out though, after I finished the third year, and that ended up being the summer I went to Helgen.”   
Slowly he nodded. “I was unaware you studied architecture,” so many things he didn’t know. It made him feel oddly...exposed. Tharya seemed to know everything and be able to read his every emotion, and yet he didn’t even know her level of schooling. _The one thing I’m good at_ . Come to think of it-   
“Hold on, don’t get sidetracked. Lighthouse,” she put a hand on his chest. “It was a setup. Jaree-Ra had set me up to do his dirty work and then given his sister, Deeja, orders to kill me once I met her on the ship. Well, I didn’t know the extent of his planning, so I had to be careful on the Icerunner. I went to meet Deeja, and she gave me some gold, but not a lot. Drop in the bucket. When I asked, she attacked, I fought back and ended up killing her.   
  
“The only problem was, all the Blackblood Marauders—that’s Jaree-Ra’s merry little band of mercs—were all above deck. They _definitely_ knew that I was going to die. So now my dilemma was getting off the ship alive, without raising the alarm, since there was no way I could fight off thirty mercenaries by my lonesome...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the mod featured in this chapter is solitude docks by assy mcgee--i would recommend! it's an absolute staple of my solitude :)


	9. VI. Silence Unbroken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends! be sure to follow me on tumblr (aure-lius) and hit up the ask box, we're doing cool things!

She stepped carefully over Deeja’s still-warm body, her mind still in a haze from the fight. It had been so sudden, and over just as quick as it had begun with the Argonian impaled on her sword...she hated swords, a little. They were so grotesque. A quick and bloody way to a quick and bloody end. Blood made her stomach gurgle uncomfortably, and with it pouring from an inside wound, gushing and pulsing with the body’s last movements...   
  
Tharya tore her eyes away from Deeja and instead looked for the piece of paper folded on the table. The other woman had been studying it intently when she walked in, and no doubt it held some kind of information. She plucked it off the wood and unfolded it.

_ Kill the drunk Nord when she gets there. She did what we needed her to do. Take the rest of the loot to the grotto. We’re rich. _

_ J.R. _

Short but simple.  _ Kill the drunk Nord. _ So charming. She knew from the very beginning she was just a pawn in this plot, but Jaree-Ra made her sound so expendable, so  _ non _ human. Like a tool. Now, she could go back out there and try to face down the rest of the Blackblood Marauders, who were no doubt in on the plan. There had to be thirty of them, at most, and it wouldn’t be a stretch to say they were waiting with swords and axes at the door to chop her head off if she, by some miracle, came out. So that wasn’t a good option. But somehow she had to get off the ship, and breaking a hole through the hull might draw attention. The note, though...she stared at it for a long time before another thought hit her.   
  
Aldis.   
  
Aldis, her oldest friend, her closest friend, was in Solitude. There he was captain of the city guard, an excellent achievement for a man of her age, only twenty-six. Though, nearing twenty-seven, just like she was. Both summer babies. Aldis could help her, he always had, and she hadn’t seen him in such a long time. If she could get the note to him somehow, Tharya knew Aldis’s righteous heart would leap at the chance to eradicate some bandits, and his arms would be wide open for her.   
  
_ But how do I explain this? _   
  
How could she possibly begin to tell him everything that had happened? That she herself was one of those bandits he would be marching to kill? That she had taken part in this horrible plan, had killed those innocent sailors—Jaree-Ra said they would be spared, but she had approached the boat just as they tossed the last body overboard—and had put out the damned  _ Lighthouse _ , for Shor’s sake. Divines help her, Aldis would have so many questions and...she didn’t want to think of her answers.   
  
Without sparing another second Tharya rolled the letter into the smallest cylinder she could, cursing when it began to unravel again and pinching it between her fingers. Nearby there was an empty mead bottle she swiped off the table, upending it to get any last drops out. Carefully she slid the paper through the circular opening of the bottle’s neck until it dropped into the body of the glass, where it expanded and unrolled. Then came the cork, and she jammed it in until she was certain not a damn thing would be able to pull it out again. This way the letter would be kept dry, or mostly dry; hopefully dry enough for Aldis to read. 

She burst out of the door onto the deck mid-morning, alerting every bandit on the ship to her presence. They all spun to her as one with varying looks of surprise on her face, but the moment she dashed for the edge of the ship they began yelling. Limbs flailing she launched herself overboard and into the water, almost immediately regretting it. Even this time of year the water was freezing, like she was swimming in the middle of an iceberg. And they were closer to the Sea of Ghosts than the Port of Solitude was—everyone knew that past a certain point, the Sea of Ghosts simply didn’t warm with the seasons. Briefly she thought of a traveling bard who had once told her that, beyond the sea, and far to the north, lay a huge, barren continent composed completely of ice and snow. A mystical place that had once, before the dawn of time, been home to lush summers and fertile land, but was now overcome by an endless winter. She thought him crazy. If such a beautiful place had existed, certainly there was no way it could change into a frozen and inhospitable tundra overnight. Atmora, he had called it. Atmora. She felt now the coldness of Atmora seeping into her bones as the water surrounded her on all sides, as if she were swimming deep below its icy surface.   
  
Her first objective was to swim as fast and far from the ship as possible, and stay underwater for as long as she could. It was not easy. Her body wanted to shiver and curl up to preserve some shred of warmth, and quickly her fingers were going numb. Her cloak weighed her down enough that it made swimming a burden after only a few strokes. But she went on until the arrows stopped piercing through the surface of the water and her lungs began to burn, and then struggled to the top.    
  
With a gasp of crisp air searing her lungs, she turned to see the Icerunner. It was smaller, but not out of sight. People were still swarming around above deck to try and get to her. She kept swimming. She was past the Arch now, though it hung in the distance to her left, hazy in the morning fog. Near the Lighthouse was a bend in the coastline, as if someone had taken a scoop of earth out, and a small strait of water. Across that strait was an island. If she could get to that island, there was a small piece of coastline on the left side of it that jutted out and made the strait even narrower, no more than a mile wide. If she could get to that island, and get across that small strait, she could get Knight and ride back to Solitude.   
  
If.

The cold gnawed at her limbs slowly, weighing them down with anvils of frost and fatigue. Tharya suspected her clothes would take days to dry completely, and her cloak, weeks, if ever. She tried to keep the bottle above the water when she could, but it wasn’t sustainable to swim with only one arm. By the time the island came into view she felt as if she’d been frozen solid, her teeth chattering loudly in her ears. She couldn’t even feel her staff in her left hand, couldn’t feel her arms and legs moving but only hoping they still were. Her chest hurt from shivering, and her head pounded from the cold. The island was just in reach, getting closer, closer, almost there...   
  
A sharp pain latched onto her right leg, giving her brief control over her numbed body before scuttling away. She cried out and swallowed a mouthful of sea water. The pain came again, but this time it stayed, hot and searing. The warmth of agony flooded her extremities, and the slaughterfish began gnawing on her calf. She reached back to kick at it but it stayed attached like a leech. Sharp teeth dug into her flesh and muscle over and over again, chewing, though it was having a hard time completely removing its teeth and re-sinking them into her leg, so it only made the existing holes bigger and wider and more bloody.   
  
She screamed when finally it pulled away, taking a sizable rag of skin with it. The salt water stung the wound mercilessly and the water around her became brownish with blood. She kept screaming. It  _ hurt. _ Everything hurt. The numbness had been better than this white hot pain. When her knees scraped land she was still screaming, and when she finally dragged herself out of the water and onto the grassy island, she laid in the grass and wished for death.

* * *

Knight dutifully took her through the city without her even telling him where to go. He was good like that. Her blood stained the saddle and his flanks and belly, and dripped off them both, but he trotted slowly enough that it wouldn’t irritate the wound. Tharya sat despondently in the saddle, ignoring the looks, the gasps of surprise, the hollers— _ say, miss, are you alright? _ —and as they passed the Hall of the Dead she envied the standing graves.    
  
He brought her to the courtyard of the Castle Dour, which hung high and impending over the city, more noticeable than even the bright blue dome of the palace. With its surrounding towers, the Dour was the grim reality of Solitude’s character. While the city below toiled and worked and went home at the end of the day, the Castle Dour cast a long shadow over the city by day, and by night refused to be anything less than illuminated by the twin moons.    
  
There were guards training, sparring in the courtyard, and they all gave her wild looks as Knight brought her right up to the door. Leaning heavily on her staff, like an old sage, she hobbled in. There was barely enough strength left in her arms to push the door open. It brought her to a small antechamber with arched doorways in three places: one on either of the walls at her sides, and one directly ahead. Two pillars of dark stone extended to the high ceiling with silken red banners depicting a black dragon; not a real dragon, but rather an icon of one, with triangular wings and an elegant, serpentine body between them. Fools. They had never seen a dragon before. Fools, all of them.   
  
Her labored breath caught in her throat as a voice floated into the room from the chamber beyond it; the war room, or one of them. It was an old but staunch voice, a voice that spoke in an odd timbre with odder inflections. It moved around the war room before finally coming towards the open doorway, and she suddenly wished that slaughterfish had killed her.   
  
General Tullius stopped with his back to her for a moment, examining some report in his hands. She stilled every bone in her body, even willed her blood to stop pumping. He was speaking to some unseen person. Thick white hair framed his tan neck, corded with tendons pulled tight as bowstrings. Though he was older than Ulfric, probably pushing well into his sixties, he had the lean body of a homebred, seasoned Legionnaire. And a great memory, she had heard in drunken stories that floated around taverns and waystations far from Solitude and Tullius’s ears. A great memory. An excellently logical head on his broad shoulders. He would remember her face from Helgen, no doubt. Even if it had been a year. He would know her from Helgen, and she feared what exactly he would do once he found the escaped prisoner from a year ago standing in his antechamber with a chunk of her leg missing and frozen to the core.   
  
In a quick kind of shuffling limp Tharya moved as quietly as she could. Tullius was still talking, and then a woman’s voice joined his. Hopefully, over their combined ruckus, they wouldn’t hear her. She pressed herself to the right pillar and then stopped to take shallow, unfulfilling breaths. Tullius and the woman stopped talking, and she waited. They resumed. His boots scraped over the stone floor as he rounded the table, and, as quietly as possible, Tharya tiptoed to the hallway on the right. It would lead to the officer’s quarters. Now if only she could remember which door belonged to Aldis...   
  
She didn’t have to. A minute or so into her blind searching—all the doors were locked and looked entirely unfamiliar—someone entered the Dour from the main door. Trained footsteps crossed the stone floor then the rug, and Tullius paused in his speech to greet the newcomer.   
“Afternoon, Captain.” He said in his vigilant soldier voice, and Aldis nodded his head respectfully back.   
“Good afternoon, General. All is well?” Tullius sighed.   
“As well as it can be.” Aldis clasped his hands lightly behind his back.   
“Last I heard the war was going in your favor, General,” curious, how he said  _ your _ and not  _ our _ . “Are the Stormcloaks really so organized?”   
Tullius gave a huff and before he could respond, the woman’s voice returned. “The war  _ is _ going in our favor, Captain, you heard correctly. General Tullius, however, will not be satisfied until it is over.” Tullius muttered some army proverb back that Tharya didn’t care to hear. Aldis had turned his head, and was now staring right at her, his mouth agape. The woman continued speaking and the captain bowed his head again, quietly excusing himself.

He set off down the hall at a quick pace, the hilt of a greatsword peeking out over his shoulder. Tharya swayed where she stood and fell gracelessly into his arms when he extended them to her, gripping his shoulders as tight as her frozen fingers would allow.   
“Socks?” She whispered.   
“Mittens,” he replied with a warm sigh, pressing her into his embrace. It was good to know he remembered that after all this time, their oldest and perhaps most bizarre inside joke. “Mara’s mercy, Tharya, you’re frozen solid.” Vigorously he rubbed her back and shoulders before leaning away. “You lost weight. And you’re soaked!” His eyes widened even further as he took in her raggedy form, chilled to the bone and wetter than seaweed.   
“Aldis, please,” she dug her nails into his biceps. “Please. I’m in deep. Deep. I need you to he-help me. Deep trouble. Take this.” She shoved the bottle into his hands. “Th-there’s a letter in there. There’s bandits! Bandits.” He looked curiously at her. “Bandits on the coast. It...it looked like a fresh wreck,” she hated lying to him.   
“A shipwreck?” He said softly. “We had reports of the Solitude Lighthouse going out last night. What do you mean bandits?”   
“ _ Bandits, _ ” she squeezed his arms again. “There’s a letter in that bottle, it’ll tell you where they are. One of the grottos along the northern coast. Please,” she begged, “please do something.”

Aldis examined the bottle and then her gaunt, slick face with purpling lips. She was shivering damn near violently. Why was she so wet? Her eyes were so desperate.  _ Bandits on the coast. A fresh wreck. _ How could she know all this? He hated it, but suspicion crept into his gut. She knew about the Lighthouse; he wasn’t sure how  _ he _ knew, but he did. And the letter, how had she come by it? How could she know the bandits’ location?   
“Why don’t you come with us?” He asked. “I’ll gather some men.” Aldis wouldn’t actually make her come. She was freezing and looked half-starved. But her answer would mean everything.   
“Come with you?” Tharya echoed like a frightened child. “I...I can, if you want me to. I’m not sure how much help I’d be like this.” For the first time he scanned her in earnest, saw she was leaning heavily on one side, and there was blood pooling under her boots. Aldis blinked.  _ Blood _ . Thick and red. Divines, where was she bleeding from?   
“You’re hurt,” he said, not even giving her a chance to brush it off. She would. “Tharya...” None of this made sense. She knew about a shipwreck that had happened probably as early as last night, and bandits who were raiding the boat. Somehow she came into possession of a letter detailing the plans, their location. None of it made sense. Could she be setting him up?   
  
The thought chilled Aldis to the bone, making his shoulders jerk with an involuntary shudder.   
  
“Alright.” He said gently, stepping towards her again. Letting her trip into his arms, he gave her a light squeeze, and swore he heard ribs creak under the pressure. “Stay here, and I’ll send someone to patch you up. And take a bath, change, get out of these clothes,” he pulled at her cloak, heavy as a necklace of steel ingots.    
“Thank you,” she whispered, “you have no idea.” Was she crying? “Thank you.” The guard captain reached up to touch her pale and ruddy cheeks, the warmth of his palms flooding into the frigid plains of her face.    
“I need answers when I get back,” he whispered when she closed her eyes. Tharya was a smooth liar for someone who hated lying so much, and maybe because of that lack of practice he was able to see, now, that she was hiding bits of the truth from him. It wouldn’t stay that way. It couldn’t.    
“Yes, of-of course,” she nodded, and then took a meek step away. “You should go.”   
“Lock the door,” he instructed, and Tharya knew immediately he was thinking of Tullius just as she had not ten minutes ago. “Just let the doctor in.”   
“Alright,” she promised, and watched him turn away, glancing once over his shoulder before rounding the corner, clutching the bottle in one hand.

There were no windows in Aldis’s room, a small but cozy space enclosed on all sides by grey stone. At least, he had made it cozy. Besides the necessities—the bed, which was neatly made, a small round table with one chair, and a door that led to a small washroom—he had a little rug, a bookshelf filled equally with books and trinkets, and a slim wardrobe. After the doctor had come and before she fell asleep Tharya stared at the bookshelf. One section of the second shelf down from the bottom was home to a small collection of rocks, all interesting colors and shapes, some with unusual but natural markings on them. She recognized a wish stone, slate grey with a ring of white all the way around it.    
  
The rocks made her smile; she and Aldis had always spent summer evenings skipping them and plucking the intriguing ones from their homes in the shallows of the river. She thought of her own lineup back home, sitting peacefully atop the fireplace mantle. When she slept, she dreamt of childhood and Tundra House.

* * *

Aldis came back late in the evening, waking her up by jiggling the key in the lock on the other side of the door. At first fear gripped her; this place was unfamiliar, her leg hurt, who was trying to get in?    
“You’re too light a sleeper for your own good,” he chastised as he entered the room. Tharya let her hold on the quilt go, shoulders falling. His books were caked in mud and looked soaked through. There was blood dried on his face. “Those bandits you told us about weren’t expecting us, but they put up a good fight. Only two were hurt badly. I have to take a bath,” he sniffed his arm and then grimaced. “Did the doctor come?”   
“Yeah.” Tharya put her hand on her leg. The throbbing had subsided a little. Aldis regarded her for a long moment before nodding, reaching to undo the belt across his chest that held his greatsword and scabbard in place. He leaned the sheathed weapon against the wall.    
“What cut you?” With a soft groan the guard captain sank into the wooden chair in the corner, easing his boots off.   
  
“Slaughterfish,” she replied.    
“Good gods.”   
“I was trying to get across the channel,” the Dragonborn made a vague gesture with her hands, “the water between the Arch and the coast. That’s where the Icerunner wrecked.”   
  
The suspicion in his eyes was clear as day, but he still held off on asking her what he wanted to. No doubt he would. Tharya knew Aldis, and she knew he would always dig up the truth no matter what, for better or for worse. For a dense moment they stared at each other in silence, and then he stood and told her to go back to sleep, before disappearing into the bathroom.   
  
She did—or at least tried to—rest again. She was still awake when Aldis came out of his bath and changed, but kept her eyes shut and back turned. She was still awake when he gathered his armor and sword and left, and only slightly dozing when he returned again with three hot bowls balanced with a few iron cups and wedges of bread on a tray. Without trying to disturb her he set the tray down at the foot of the bed, but Tharya sat up again. Food. When was the last time she’d eaten?    
“Shouldn’t you eat with the others?” The guard captain wrapped his arms around the small circular table and brought it towards the edge of the bed, and then dragged the chair after it.    
“With who?”   
“The other guards, or something,” she made a vague gesture away from the room. “You’re the captain.”   
“I’m also your friend,” he sat himself in the chair and divvied up the bowls and bread and cups. “I got you two.”   
She blinked. “What? Why?”   
“Because you look like one of those stickbugs that sit on the window in summer,” he snorted.   
  
When he looked away Tharya discreetly felt her ribs and stomach. She didn’t  _ feel _ that thin. Maybe he was just exaggerating.    
  
That one offhand comment about summer sparked a conversation rooted solely in the past, full of shared childhood experiences, and  _ remember whens _ , and  _ was it you I did this with _ . She commented on the rocks and he looked a little embarrassed until she told him she had a collection too, sitting on the mantle at home. And then they talked about the one time they had accidentally broken a poor fisherman’s pole on the Karth River from skipping a big rock too hard, too far. It felt good to laugh again. It felt good to eat, and be safe, as she sat opposite her oldest friend on the edge of his bed and ate dinner with someone other than her horse for the first time in what felt like centuries.    
  
After what felt like an endless night of reminiscing Aldis took the last of his drink and sat back in his chair, happily satiated by good food and better company at the end of a work day. Tharya was too, though she hadn’t done much since sunup. Probably not half as much as he had. Killing Deeja, jumping ship, swimming across the channel...it all felt like a distant memory, or even a ridiculous dream. She had forgotten all about it, all about the Icerunner and the Lighthouse, all about Jaree-Ra and her failure of a day on wharf, forgotten all about-   
  
“The bandits.”   
  
The words made her stop chewing. Suddenly the bread turned to ash in her mouth, chalky and dry. She looked to her cup to wash it down but it was empty. In one painfully dry swallow the bread went down, scratching and biting her throat as it did.   
“Tell me about the bandits,” Aldis leaned his elbows forward on the table and laid his arms one atop the other. He still had that scar on his wrist from when... “I know you don’t want to, but you know too much about them for me to think it was pure coincidence.” Tharya let her hands settle in her lap so he wouldn’t see them shaking.    
“The bandits,” she echoed, mind racing. How could she get out of this? Anything to make him forget or look the other way would be a godsend. But Aldis...he was her  _ friend. _ Probably her only friend, now, with Kharjo gone. And there was no reason to lie to him. No reason at all, perhaps besides hiding her own humiliation from the world’s prying eyes.    
  
Wordlessly the man across from her extended one arm across the table, palm facing upwards. Wordlessly she took it.   
  
“I...” the Dragonborn sucked in a deep breath that didn’t seem to make it all the way to her lungs. “I’m the one who put the Lighthouse fire out.” Everything was silent for a long time. Experimentally, she inhaled again, this time focusing on the scents around her. Besides the mustiness of the stone and the Castle Dour, besides the fresh air scent emanating from the sheets—they’d been air-dried recently, then—Aldis himself was the next biggest output of smells. Beneath the lingering soap from his bath and the faint scent of  _ cave _ , he was...scared. Of her? Of what she said? He was surprised, floored, shocked, but he was nervous and scared too. “I didn’t mean...I was going to light it again,” she protested weakly, squeezing his fingers. “I really was. I just...”   
“The guards found a rather impressive collection of mead bottles atop the Lighthouse when they investigated.”   
  
Those words struck another hole through her walls, through her very foundation. He hadn’t intended for it to hurt but it did.   
“I really was,” she repeated in a quiet voice. “I didn’t want to do it.”   
“So why did you?”   
“I did the right thing in the end, didn’t I?” Tharya looked up at him with a desperate grip on his wrist. “I brought the letter to you, and you were able to stop them.”   
Aldis sighed slowly into his beard. “I was able to get rid of them. But the real damage had already been done.” In that moment she hated the way he looked at her. Pity. She wasn’t broken. She didn’t need fixing. She sure as hell didn’t want pity. Not  _ his _ . Not anyone’s. “I would’ve never thought you’d do something like that, Thar,” he said gently, watching the woman opposite him as she squeezed her eyes shut. “Why did you really do it?”   
When she opened her eyes they were blurry with tears. “Are you going to turn me in?” He debated for a moment.   
“No,” came the answer at last. “Only if you tell me what drove you to this. Money?” She shook her head. “Then what?”   
  
First a stuttering sob left her lips. No, not money. She had no idea why she’d done it, and that was the Divines’ honest truth. Before she could control herself she was weeping freely in front of him, clutching his wrist so hard her dull nails left small red ovals. It hurt her chest, to cry this hard. It hurt her head. It hurt everything.    
“I...I really don’t know,” she gasped, “I don’t know. I’m useless. I don’t  _ do _ anything anymore, a-and, people, people don’t  _ need _ me any...anymore. I’m so useless.”    
“No, no you aren’t,” he urged, “you’re the  _ Dragonborn! _ You saved the world all on your own.” Yes, she had. But where was the recognition? Where was anything? What good had killing Alduin done her, except leave her yearning for a place she couldn’t return to for the next fifty, sixty years?   
“Not–not on my own. I had Kharjo,” she wailed. Kharjo.  _ Everyone leaves. _   
“Is this about him?”   
“Yes,” she whimpered, and then, “no.”   
“Then what’s wrong?”   
  
She couldn’t find the words to reply. Everything. Everything was wrong. For weeks on end she’d been doing nothing but drinking and sulking. The world no longer needed her, and indeed, that became true when she left, and no one was sent to follow or look. When she vanished, no one came to see.  _ Seen. _ She wanted to be seen, just this once. She was not one for the spotlight, not one to chase fame or fortune. She never had been. Too generous for her own good, always willing to help at her own expense. That’s what she was. And just this once, selfishly, foolishly, she had wished to be seen, when everyone was supposed to be looking. She couldn’t even be sure Aldis saw her now, since he knew what she’d done, the horrible thing she’d done, how she’d killed those sailors, helped the bandits. How she had been too stupid to do anything else but submit and let herself be moved like a pawn. No, she doubted Aldis could see her now. Not anymore.   
  
Not ever again.   
  
Abruptly there was a scraping sound as the table was moved away and a dip in the bed beside her that her instincts told her to lean on. She didn’t see him put his arms around her, nor did she truly feel it, but for the first time in days she felt grounded. If not seen, then grounded.   
  
And that, she supposed, for this one night, would be enough.

* * *

**_QUEST FAILED: LIGHTS OUT!_ **

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be no update next week (10/29/20) since i'm resting my hands & planning in preparation for nanowrimo!!


	10. VII. Kyne's Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super sorry for the long wait everyone! life caught up to me. believe it or not, we're nearing the end of part 1! at the moment of publishing this i'm working on the last chapter. be sure to click the link embedded in the chapter for a surprise ;) i hope everyone is enjoying it so far, and remember comments and kudos are life!

**Turdas, 1st of Sun’s Height**

The restaurant they sat at had a perfect patio for sitting outside, a small area roped off with a few wooden tables and thin, elegant metal chairs, looking outwards towards the street. The few guards who strut up and down on patrol acknowledged Aldis each time they went by, and likewise he greeted them. One of them gave a detailed report of the apparent calmness on the streets, in a brisk and booming voice that made the other patrons eye him.  
“He’s new,” Aldis said, just loud enough for people at the nearest table to hear, and Tharya nodded sympathetically. “He’s new.”  
  
Dinner had been fresh cod glazed with a thick, creamy lemon sauce, less fresh salad, and a side of mashed potatoes. For the first time in forever she felt _hungry_ in the morning, afternoon, and evening, and somehow managed to eat all three corresponding meals. There was wine and mead aplenty in Solitude but today was the first day she had opted for water after days of Aldis stringently weaning her off alcohol. It wasn’t the best course of action nor was it perfectly executed, but neither of them were doctors, and it was a start. A good start. A solid start.  
  
Now, satiated from dinner and feeling oddly renewed except for the dull throbbing in her bandaged calf, Tharya watched the people pass on the street. So many people. She felt as if she hadn’t been to Solitude in ages, and it was strange not being with Lofrek or her family. Aldis was good enough, more than good enough. She was glad to see him again, glad to see he hadn’t been sucked into the Imperial war machine and remained only a mere _captain of the guard_ . Captain of the guard would keep him alive and safe, and in charge of something much less damning than the Civil War.  
  
“Dessert?” Aldis asked as a server drew near, snaking between tables with a sleek smile and examining each in turn.  
“Oh, gods no,” she waved him off. “I can’t.”  
“We’re having dessert,” the captain smiled at her, and when the server glided to their table, he stopped.  
“Anything else, m’lord, m’lady? Or simply the bill?”  
With a groan Tharya let him order. “We’ll take two of your boiled creme treats, and the bill.”  
“Will you let me pay?” She asked. Aldis shook his head. The server nodded smoothly.  
“As you wish, m’lord.” With that he floated away again.  
  
Tharya watched him go and then turned back to her friend, waiting as another guard stalked by and gave him a staunch nod. Aldis nodded in return, lounging back in his chair with a content sigh, examining the street. It wasn’t as busy as it would be in the morning or even at noon, and the crowds were beginning to thin out as the sun set. She took in a deep breath of cool, salty air before exhaling.  
“What can I do for you?” She asked finally, gaining Aldis’s attention and a raised brow. “For helping me. What can I do?”  
“Not a word,” he held a hand up, “I didn’t decide to help you so I could bully something out of you in return.” She wrung her hands tightly in her lap, staring down the brown fabric for a long time while her mind formulated a response. The dress wasn’t hers, though she’d grown fond of it—it belonged to one of the maids who was generous enough to share some clothes with her, and though she couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn a dress, it felt a little exciting to be a girl, for just a moment. “Tharya.” Aldis extended his hand across the table just as he had that night, and hesitantly she took it. “You know this is what friends are for, yes?”  
“But how can you just do something like this and not want some form of payment in return?” She insisted, squeezing his wrist. The captain shook his head.  
“I don’t. The only payment I want is you getting better, and being yourself again.” He caught the doubt in her eyes. “Truly. That’s all I want.”  
  
When dessert came the conversation became lighter, and though it still gnawed at her, she let it drop. Aldis was as stubborn as Nords came, and once he made up his mind he wouldn’t budge unless there was a mountain of facts or disagreements to move him. He paid without even letting her look at the bill, and then as dusk settled over the city they strolled arm-in-arm at a leisurely pace back towards the Castle Dour.  
  
“Doesn’t your sister go to the Bard’s College?” Aldis asked as they passed the towering school building, his feet slowing. Tharya nodded after a moment.  
“Yeah, she does, but...” _I don’t want her to see me like this._ She felt as if she’d made great progress in the past few days but...but maybe seeing Lilika would shatter whatever fragile ground she’d taken. Lilika had always been her favorite, and Tharya had always felt obliged to provide and care for her in some way, most often at her own expense. Lilika didn’t see it as such, but Tharya didn’t want her to. The youngest sibling had to live her life, and it was everyone else’s job to make sure she didn’t hit the same hiccups the rest of them had. “She does. I’d have a hard time explaining how I got here, though.” Aldis seemed to understand and they kept walking.  
  
Halfway to the Castle Dour and thought crossed her mind, a faint memory swimming to the forefront of her head.

"How's Elisif?" She asked. Aldis looked at her a little strangely as they walked, but gave a small shrug.

"Grieving, still. I believe Ulfric's every breath on Nirn hurts her," he grimaced for a moment, "but I think she'll come out of it soon. It's been a year."

"She doesn't need to rush," Tharya shrugged back, unable to keep the little smile off her lips. She didn't need to rush, that much was true; Torygg would wait as long as it took, and with all the patience in the world.

"Why do you ask?" Aldis held his hand out to her and she took it as they ambled below the tall stone arch that led to the training yard.

"No reason," Tharya shook her head, "just wondering."

* * *

**Fredas, 2nd of Sun’s Height**  
  
As usual, Aldis’s generosity followed her to the stables the next morning when she made to depart; he had stuffed one part of her saddlebags full of food and two large waterskins that sloshed heavily as he carried them. The day was thick with humidity that would lessen the farther south she rode, and though the temperature in and around the city was kept in check by the continuous sea wind, the hot summer sun would be beating down on her until at least seven in the evening.  
“Have everything?” Aldis watched her check straps and buckles and give the saddle a little pull. Knight was overjoyed to see her, unable to sit still, always turning to press his nose into her hands and face.  
“Yeah, I think so,” Tharya replied, lifting the cover of the opposite saddlebag. A book or two, a small sack of soul gems, and her bandolier—it was too hot to wear it now—with two scrolls attached at the shoulder, and four clasped pouches across the chest. An extra set of clothes, no doubt heavily wrinkled by now, rolled tightly and packed at the bottom with her green cloak. Attached to the side of her saddle was a bow made of some kind of gold metal. If Aldis didn’t know any better, he’d say it almost looked like some Dwemer relic. “Thank you, again, Aldis. You really didn’t have to give me all that stuff.” She turned to face him with a little smile.  
“Nonsense.” He opened his arms and they hugged tightly, neither having any idea of when one of them would stumble back into the other’s life again. Soon, they hoped, but left it to the gods to decide.  
  
“Oh, that reminds me,” Tharya wished he hadn’t pulled away so soon, but watched him fish for something in the saddlebag he’d loaded with food, and extracted a medium package wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied with string. It was thin but hard, like a book cover, if a bit tall. “This is for your birthday,” Aldis showed her the package before returning to the bag. “But don’t open it until then.”  
“Are you kidding me? That’s two months, almost.” Tharya groaned.  
“Then you have to wait two months,” he shrugged, watching her swing herself into the saddle with some difficulty. He wrapped one hand lightly around the horn, stroking Knight’s neck with his free hand. The dappled grey had carried her far in the four years they’d been together. “Where are you off to?”  
She hesitated for a moment before shrugging lightly. “I think home. I sent a letter to my mother,” at least, Sanguine had sent one, and she had only briefly read it over before it was on its merry way. “Before... everything. I guess I owe my family some explanations.”  
  
Aldis nodded and they said their goodbyes, and reluctantly Knight started down the road. Both horse and rider twisted their heads back to see the guard captain standing vigilantly beside the stables watching them leave, and when he saw Tharya turned he raised a hand to wave at her. She waved back until he was out of sight, the crest of a hill in the road swallowing him up, and the sea breeze slowly died off as she traveled away from Solitude.

* * *

**M** **orndas, 5th of Sun’s Height**

**My head’s been hurting lately, but at least my hands have stopped shaking. I can thank Aldis for getting me to stop drinking but now I think...Divines, I must’ve really shaken myself up. I think maybe I built up some sick reliance on it, and...I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, but I wish I wouldn’t.**

**On the bright side, the weather’s been nice enough to sleep under the stars and the days are long, so I’ve been able to make good time. Start around sunrise and stop after sunset. And Knight’s been well-rested lately so I don’t think keeping on through one night will kill either of us. If we can travel one whole day, sunrise to sunrise, I think we’d probably be in Whiterun by the seventh. The seventh? I think so, when I left Solitude it was the second, and it’s been two or three days? The seventh sounds right.** **  
****  
****We passed through Morthal today. Divines. What a shitty little place, like the sweaty, swampy, arsehole of the country. Of the continent, really. I only stopped long enough to get some supplies, didn’t want to stay to see whatever the mob in front of the Jarl’s place was shouting about.**

She paused in writing to lift her nose to the breeze that rolled through. She and Knight had stopped only briefly by the side of the road to eat a quick breakfast in the shade, before the day got too hot. Morthal was a good ways behind them but still the dank scent of swamp stuck to her clothes, mingling with the particular musk of sweat and horse. But the breeze carried something new on it, something that smelled neither of Morthal nor herself. Not soldiers, she determined, who always had a scent that was vaguely metallic like both blood and metal, and not a Khajiit caravan, who smelled of sand and heat and somewhat like forests. No, this... _aroma_ was altogether different, a huge conglomerate of things. Of cloth, and wood, of both Man and Mer; the scent was fresh clothes, and horses—maybe only one or two—and dull metal, of flowers, of food, of...campfires. This smell was familiar to her, somehow. Her nose knew it.  
  
Thoughtlessly Tharya stood and tucked her journal away in the saddlebag, latching the cover down again and taking Knight by the reins to lead him back onto the road. Sure enough, there was a small caravan coming down the road. Three covered wagons, a small group of men and women walking by the three horses. Just as she had guessed; mostly Nords and Imperials, but there were two Dunmer with them and an Orc. As they drew closer the scent weighed even more heavily on her, and when she caught sight of an aging Imperial man with a salt-and-pepper beard at the front of the small caravan, holding an elegantly carved staff—easy to mistake for a walking stick, but fellow mages had a knack for finding each other—she knew. The man raised his head to the air and then looked directly at her as she approached, and the caravan drew to a halt as his feet did.  
  
“Forgive me, sister,” he called, and Tharya closed the gap between them to stand at his side. The man extended his hand. “But you seem...familiar. Are you one of the blood?” Her heart jumped. _This had to be them_ .  
“Yes indeed, brother,” she smiled back, “my name is-”  
“ _Tharya_ ,” the man nodded slowly, a grin crossing his lips. “Yes, it is good to see you again, sister. It’s been many moons since you left us.”  
“Brandt,” she opened her arms wide and they embraced tightly for a moment, swinging back and forth. There was no doubt in her mind now. “What in Shor’s name are you doing in Skyrim? And this far inland? I thought you would keep to Cyrodiil for the war.”  
“Ah, yes. Well.” Brandt combed thick fingers through his dark hair, turning silver at the edges, just like his beard. It was a little curly and reached below his ears. “We had intended to stay, but unexpected business brought us northwards, and now here we are.”  
“Unexpected business?” She raised an eyebrow. He smiled wryly, and she nodded. “Alright, keep your secrets. I’m just glad to see you again. All of you,” Tharya looked around him to the group of people—she didn’t recognize all of them. They had grown in number then, with some leaving, and new blood entering. There were maybe eleven of them total. “Where are you headed?”  
“Haafingar,” Brandt replied, gesturing down the road. A nod. Haafingar...she had just come from there. But still, these people, Brandt...well, she could travel with them a while. “Will you be joining us?”  
  
Tharya reached back to pat Knight’s neck, and smiled widely.  
“I will, but not for long. I’m headed in the opposite direction.”  
  
Maybe a day or so. It wouldn’t hurt to lose time. And these people, after all, and Brandt especially—they were her pack.  
  
How could she ever say no to her pack?

* * *

**Middas, 27th of Frostfall, 4E 207, 3:30 A.M.**

She checked Miraak’s features as he lay in silence, the low candlelight hardly enough to create a shadow on his face. He was staring up into the darkness at the vague, grey ceiling.

“You belong to...to a _pack_ ?” He asked softly, as if saying it any louder would make it a reality he wasn’t willing to cope with.  
“The Lightride Pack,” Tharya nodded, speaking in an equally quiet tone. Her lycanthropy was...touchy, at best, with him. “Brandt is their leader. He’s the man who turned me—he saved my life.” The First Dragonborn raised an eyebrow at her. “That’s a different story.”  
“How long have you been—like this?” She knew he was trying to be good about it but it was difficult to keep the disgust out of his voice.  
“Oh, maybe...at this point, about a decade?” Those words seemed to physically assault him. Miraak sniffed loudly and tried to play it off, but she didn’t miss the way he shook his head.  
“Your pack. You call them _they_ . Brandt is _their_ leader. Not yours?” Ah, he was astute as ever. Tharya reached for his hands first, hoping to all the Divines he would let her hold them; he did.  
“Well, as you can see, I don’t really travel with them.” She smiled sympathetically. “I’m _technically_ part of the pack because...well, I wanted to be. But I had things to do and places to be, so I couldn’t really stay. I’m still surprised I found them in Hjaalmarch that day,” she shrugged, rubbing his knuckles soothingly, “I haven’t seen them since. I hope they’re all okay.”  
  
Miraak only hummed. He glanced out the window and then put a hand on his chest, closing his eyes again.  
“Are you tired?” She whispered.  
“No,” he said, sighing. “Are you?”  
“No, I’ve slept a lot this week.” Wondering if he would turn away she put her hand lightly over his, tracing the prominent veins on the back of his palm and brushing his fingers. “Do you want to hear more?” There was a long silence, and then the pillow rustled as he nodded.  
“ _Geh_ , if there is more to tell.”

* * *

**Morndas, 5th of Sun’s Height, 4E 202**

[Seated](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gl7zqpZBVrc&ab_channel=MiddleAges) around a heated campfire, her fingers strumming aimlessly on a mandolin with another man playing beside her, Tharya was raising her voice in song for the first time since she could remember; certainly no time in the past year or so, she’d been running across the province back and forth to bolster herself against Alduin. And before that...well, it had been a while. And it had been a while since a mandolin had been in her hands. She wasn’t entirely musical, she couldn’t sing well, but simple songs were not entirely foreign to her fingers. Jorstus had once played, too, but given it up a long time ago, only after imparting his knowledge to her.

It wasn’t a particularly upbeat song, but easy to dance to, easy to play, easy to sing. And dance they did; the members of the Lightride Pack spun and leapt around each other under a harmless crescent moon, laughing, happy with full bellies and good drinks. The summer night was perfectly cool, starry, with a light breeze. Brandt tended the fire and the cooking pots, stirring a thick and delicious smelling stew—if a bit heavy on the rosemary—and watching the others dance and clap. Someone picked up a tambourine and laid out their own beat with it, a succession of rattles and clanging hits that disrupted the mandolin’s song. The tambourine was in the hands of another man holding it high above his head, hips moving and body rocking in an upright slither kind of motion, hopping in circles around everyone and the fire.  
  
“Jeez, I can’t keep up with you guys,” Tharya laughed, handing the mandolin back to its owner. She smiled brightly in reply. She must be new—Tharya didn’t remember her face nor her scent. “It’s been a long time since I’ve played.”  
“You did well!” The woman assured her, laughing. “Looks like supper will be ready soon.”  
“Brandt is such a good cook,” the other mandolin player, a man on her left, sighed dreamily. Tharya grinned.  
“Yeah, I remember him cooking when we met. Lightridge was a lot smaller then,” she glanced around before getting to her feet. “Well, I need to stretch my legs, I’ll be back in a minute or two.”  
  
She stood from the fire with stiff knees, taking her staff from the ground and bouncing it in her hand before turning towards the woods. Just a minute of fresh air and quiet, and she would come back. Tharya trudged through the trees and exhaled quietly, checking over her shoulder every couple steps. She didn’t want to lose sight of the fire. The music followed her and stirred the night’s stillness along with her footsteps. Her boots came to stop maybe a hundred or so feet from the camp, a tree offering a stiff trunk to lean against. It was good to be around friends again, around people she could trust. At least to some small degree; Brandt was a good man, as she was sure most everyone in Lightridge was. Brandt wouldn’t recruit them otherwise.  
  
Her nose caught the faint scent of someone approaching at almost the same time her ears heard the distinctive _snap, crunch_ of twigs and leaves underfoot. They were coming from her side...had she been followed out?

The first thing she felt was someone brushing her hair away and then sharp canines nibbling gently on her neck. Tharya's fingers tightened around her staff and she turned and stepped away. 

"Um, hello?" 

"Hello, little wolf," the man stepped forward, into her space, an animal grin on his lips. She recognized him from earlier around the campfire, his red hair and scraggly beard. 

"Tharya," she introduced herself with a tight smile. The man hummed and craned forward, nuzzling into her neck and grabbing her hips to press his groin against her. A gasp left her lips, though she didn’t push him off just yet. Maybe he was just a drunk—igniting that kind of inebriated male rage was not in her best interest right now.

"When's the last time someone knotted you up, little pup?" 

"W-w-well first of all," good gods, did she really have to stutter at this exact moment in time? "I'm not a pup, and if I was I'd be concerned about you knotting pups." She laughed awkwardly. 

"Come on," the man urged in a coarse whisper, pulling her hips forward even as she leaned back. "Let's go for a round." He didn't reek of alcohol, there was no sour skooma tinge on his breath. So he was sober, if a bit sex-crazed. And gods, when was the last time-? "I can knot you up good, little pup." 

"I'm flattered, but definitely not interested in having your kids." She said quickly, wriggling away and walking in a dignified scurry back through the woods to the camp. For only a moment her step hesitated as she thought of taking him up—and then she pushed the thought from her mind, the words she had spoken to Sanguine forever ago trailing her back to the camp.

_It means I can't just have sex with absolutely anyone to make myself feel better about my shitty life. It's not healthy._

  
Well, she was no picture of health at this point in time. But she could at least try.

  
  


**Middas, 7th of Sun’s Height**

She slept that night with the rest of the pack and lingered only to have breakfast with them, and help them pick up their camp, pack up their wagons and get them back to the road. Every bone in her body ached to stay with them, with Brandt, and even if that red haired man from the night before was among them and looked sourly at her the whole morning—they were a strange kind of family to her and her beast blood. Meeting them here in Hjaalmarch had been complete chance, and she had no way of knowing when they would happen upon one another again.  
  
She hadn’t lost much ground, traveling with them, and though she and Knight started later than she would’ve liked, they were still a full day and a half from Whiterun. Tharya didn’t pause to eat lunch and stopped for only twenty minutes to eat supper and let Knight graze and rest. As evening turned to dusk, and dusk to full dark, they came back to the road and kept their slow pace through the night. Tharya spoke to him and occasionally hummed those errant tunes that had stuck in her ears from the previous evening. She even told him about the redhead, and Knight tossed his mane and snorted at that. Maybe Sanguine was right—she was a crazy lady, talking to her horse all the time, but who else was there to talk to?  
  
By the evening of the seventh she was approaching Whiterun from the northwest road, set to pass Fort Greymoor in less than an hour. As a breeze drifted by the sting of smoke assaulted her nose. Fresh, black smoke. Blowing towards her...from Whiterun?  
  
Tharya spurred Knight into a fast trot, and together they traversed the distance between them and the fort with urgency nipping at their heels. Her heart fell as they approached Fort Greymoor: there was a wooden gate built across the road, with a palisade stemming from one side, running all the way to the fort’s wall, and the same being built on the opposite side. And those soldiers...red armor, brown armor, leather and gleaming silver helmets with cheek guards, all with uniform shortswords. 

_Imperials_.  
  
Knight immediately slowed to a walk without her even pulling the reins, but it was already too late. An Imperial captain had spotted her, his silver gauntlets moving as he waved her closer. There was a bright red, vertical plume attached to his helm.  
“Shit,” Tharya cursed to herself, tightening her grip on her staff, resting it across her thighs. Her previous encounter with Imperials flashed through her thoughts: _papers_. She had no papers. What kind of permit were the Imperials even requiring now? And _what_ were they doing in Whiterun? The hot breeze reminded her of the scent of smoke, heavier still the closer she got to the city. The heat in the air was not just from summer.  
  
“Hold!” The captain barked as she drew near the gate, and began walking towards her when she drew Knight to a stop. “Where are you riding from, traveler?”  
“Hjaalmarch,” she nodded to him. “Visiting some family in Morthal.” By his tan skin he was not only an Imperial soldier, but of the Imperial race. Most likely from Cyrodiil, then. “Festering swamp though it may be.” At that the captain looked at her and then barked out a laugh—common. Cyrodiil natives always had something to complain about in every Hold in Skyrim. Morthal was just the easiest to guess.  
“Papers?” He extended one hand expectantly, and raised his chin in suspicion when she didn’t move to retrieve anything.  
“I mean no disrespect, Captain, but when I left Whiterun we didn’t have Imperials on our doorstep,” Tharya spoke with a smile to keep him placated. He snorted, reaching up to wrap one gauntleted hand around Knight’s reins. So, he was expecting her to run.  
“When did you leave, girl?” _Girl?_ He hardly looked five years older than her. She’d been downgraded from _traveler_ to _girl._  
“Around the middle of Second Seed...the seventeenth, I think. Yeah. A month and a half, give or take.”  
  
After a dense moment of contemplation the captain twisted towards the soldiers waiting at the gate, hands wrapped none too discreetly around the hilt of their swords. He waved them away and both men relaxed, hands dropping away.  
“Dismount, please.” He gave the reins a light tug. “You’ve been gone long enough, and I believe you.” Tharya felt his eyes on her as she swung down from the saddle. “Come with me, and we’ll give you a travel permit.” _Travel permit_. What other places had the Imperials gained control of, if they were already imposing travel restrictions? No one did that unless they controlled vast areas, with towns and cities to boot. Restrictions needed people to follow them.  
  
Another soldier took Knight as she was led through the gate into Fort Greymoor. Across the plains Whiterun stood proudly on its hill, half-crumbled walls an eyesore as always, but it was not as she left it. The smoke was coming from within the city, rising in wide, billowing columns from each district. _Whiterun_ was on fire. The Imperials had attacked and taken the city in her absence. Vaguely Tharya remembered Balgruuf and Irileth had been speaking about Ulfric when she first returned from Skuldafn, and something about an axe. So Ulfric hadn’t gained Balgruuf’s loyalty, but the Imperials had attacked anyway. Why hadn’t Balgruuf just given the city to them? Why put up a fight? Tullius controlled most of the province anyway, and he would probably win the war before the year was out.  
  
The captain cleared his throat loudly and Tharya reluctantly tore her eyes away from home, following him into Fort Greymoor. The pungent scent of smoke was thicker here, clinging to some of the soldiers. She tried her hardest not to curl her lip in disgust; they had _burned_ Whiterun. Tharya hadn’t cared about the war before, but now, for a fleeting moment, she hated the Imperials. 

They had cleaned the place up nicely, so perhaps they’d been here a while. Still they were working at it, clearing brush and overgrowth, fixing walls, rebuilding stables. The red flag was hoisted high above the fort walls.  
“You’ll need papers from now on to travel between Imperial-controlled regions. After the war,” the tone of the captain’s voice said he, too, thought Tullius would win Skyrim over by Saturalia. Perhaps even sooner. “You won’t need them, when this is an Imperial province again.”  
“Which regions do you control, exactly?” She asked, skipping a step to bring herself to the man’s side. He glanced sidelong at her.  
“Haafingar, Hjaalmarch, The Rift, and now Whiterun. Soon the Reach; Dawnstar, Falkreath, and Eastmarch still evade our grasp, but not for long.”  
“I heard the Stormcloaks were taking on guerrilla tactics in Hjaalmarch, in Drajkmyr Marsh,” she said evenly.  
“Not for long,” the captain repeated firmly, and then stopped beside a door that led into the keep. “The commander is just in here. He’ll give you the permit. Don’t lose it, and keep it with you at all times. Maybe by winter you won’t need it,” he added as he walked away.

The commander was a greying man with a thick beard and an annoyed voice. He was seated at a rickety wooden table just inside the room the door brought her to, and looked up when she entered. Without even speaking he reached for a slip of paper and wet his quill.  
“Name?”  
“Tharya.” She replied.  
“Last name?”  
“Uhm...” she didn’t have a last name of her own, Nords didn’t seem to care about last names as much as Imperials did. “Sun-Sword,” she said finally. Her father’s epithet. The commander muttered something about Nords and names and then stamped the paper, and handed it to her. She took it and thanked him, but he was already going back to his paperwork.  
  
Tharya showed herself out of Fort Greymoor, and the soldier who was holding Knight by the gate nodded as he handed the steed back. She didn’t mount him; instead they walked briskly together down the road. Whiterun, taken by Imperials. She wondered if they had left Balgruuf in charge. She wondered if her siblings were okay, if her parents...if her friends, the people she had known her whole life, were still there. Fear twisted her stomach until it almost hurt to walk. Was the fur trader still standing? Or Carlotta’s grocery stall? Too many questions rose from the smoke. What had the Imperials burned? What had been spared?  
  
She disregarded the stables and led Knight directly up to the city gates. There were Imperial soldiers lingering at the gate. They saw the slip of paper and didn’t ask her for anything, merely opened the left gate enough for her to get by, and then shut it behind her. They didn’t leave the gates open? The Whiterun gates were almost always open.  
  


The city itself was shrouded in a dreary grey glow. Just inside the wall, on the right, the fur trader had been reduced to ashen planks, embers still gleaming. A wall of the Drunken Huntsman had black scorch marks crawling up the wood. There was ash lining the street into the market, and what she thought to be either blood or tar lying in clumps on the stone. No one looked at her as she passed. Each head was kept down, and the few people on the street were hurrying, hurrying from one spot to the next before disappearing behind closed doors. The Plains District was quiet for a long moment before the steady clanking of marching boots reached her ears. She sniffed the air, trying to smell through the stench of burnt wood and putrid, choking ash. _Imperials._ Twenty of them...all marching towards the Plains District. When she looked around the street had emptied entirely, and not a soul beside herself could be seen.  
  
The Civil War, which she had avoided for so long, dealt with the beast only out of necessity, had finally come home.

As night fell Tharya made her way to Breezehome; the Wind District had fared better than the Plains District, but not by much. The Battle-Born roof looked in serious need of repair, but she felt a tinge of amusement at that. _Serves them right, that the Empire they love so much should knock a few shingles off._ The Temple of Kynareth looked relatively untouched, perhaps the only building in the whole city like it. When she peered down the street to the long dome of Jorrvaskr’s roof, it, too, looked whole. No doubt the Companions had stayed holed up inside their hall the entire time, unwilling to get involved in outside politics. Even if _outside politics_ meant defending their city from intruders.

When she knocked on the door to Breezehome and then tried to go inside, she found it locked. The door itself didn’t budge, not even an inch. She knocked again, and then a third time, rattling the handle to try and get it open when-  
  
“Calm down! You looking to break a perfectly fine door off its hinges, man?” Fjurkin Sun-Sword was on par to be as tall as most Nord men, and though less burly, more lean, he was still strong. His light brown hair was cut short, unlike most of his counterparts, to frame full cheeks, pale green eyes and a neatly kempt beard, short and cut close to his jaw. Light silver sprinkled his temples. In the summer his tanned Imperial skin had a healthy, sunny complexion to it, though in the winter he grew paler. Most importantly of all, he was Tharya’s father, and upon seeing his second youngest daughter for the first time in months, tears sprang to the corners of his eyes. “Tharya!”  
  
“Hi, Pops,” she grunted as he swung both arms around her and lifted her clear off the street to jostle her around, like an overzealous child claiming his first gift on his birthday.  
“Divines, girl, where have you been? If your mother hadn’t told me she talked to you before you left, I would’ve sent the entire hall looking for you!” He cried, squeezing her tightly. _The entire hall_ —Fjurkin was an established Companion and had been for perhaps two decades now, in conjunction with serving in the Whiterun cavalry.  
“I had some things to do, Pops,” Tharya assured him, patting his arms when he finally put her down again. Theatrically he swiped the tears off his face. “Dragonborn business.”  
“ _Aha!_ Of course, chickadee! Maybe leave a note next time? Your dear old dad, you know, he can’t go too long without knowing when one of his little birds flies the coop.”  
“I see your extended animal metaphors are strong as ever,” Tharya grinned at him, and Fjurkin let out a bellowing laugh. Gods, she wanted to laugh with him. He always seemed to brighten the world with his smile...this time, though, she couldn’t muster the strength to even fake it.  
“Well, come in, sweetheart.” The smile on his lips faded slowly as his astute eyes took in the rest of the street, and then the dark sky overhead. It was easy to mistake her father for an air-headed optimist, but he was perhaps the most observant person Tharya knew. He looked to her again in a moment of seriousness that he didn’t usually share with the rest of his children. “Much has happened since you left, my girl.”

Breezehome, as it turned out, was not just her parent’s house tonight: Freana and her partner Ionnja sat at the dining table with Jorstus, Anari and Lofrek were scurrying around the small kitchen space together, and Lilika was wedged in the corner aimlessly strumming her lute. The entire family was together, here in the home of their younger years.  
  
Lilika was first to bounce from her seat, hurriedly putting her lute down.  
“Sister!” She cried, flinging her arms around Tharya in a manner reminiscent of Fjurkin’s hugs. “Where have you been?! We’ve all been worried sick.” Tharya put on her best smile—it was nice to be around her family, no doubt, but somehow she felt so _tired_ , so _exhausted_ by interacting with them, with other people, and she’d hardly been home for a minute.

“I sent a letter?” She caught Anari’s eye over Lilika’s head, and her mother nodded at her. “I sent a letter, silly. Didn’t you read it?”  
“No, Ma’s been keeping it to herself,” Lofrek quipped. He stood at the kitchen doorway rubbing his hands with a towel, but made no move to embrace her. Neither did Freana, but that was just her way. Jorstus, however, enveloped her totally in his strong arms, gentle as a breeze and lightly patting her shoulder.  
“Either way, we are glad to have you back,” he said quietly. Ionnja, having been with Freana long enough to be considered family, squeezed her firmly and smiled.  
“We were worried when the Imperials came they wouldn’t let you in, since you left so long ago,” she rolled her eyes, and put a fist on one stout hip. “And now they’re requiring _travel papers_ wherever you go.”  
“Only the Imperial-controlled Holds,” Jorstus said.  
“Which is basically _all of Skyrim,_ ” Lofrek snorted.  
Anari waved them all off and strode forward to embrace her daughter gently. Tharya could feel her magic, like a shock to the skin. Her mother’s sympathetic magic had never felt intrusive before, but now as Anari pulled away, Tharya knew she had felt it all; all the hurt and doubt and hate pulling on her shoulders.  
  
“Why don’t you sit, have a drink? Dinner’s almost ready,” Anari assured her, and she nodded.  
“Yeah, sounds good.”  
“Where were you?” Freana asked gruffly, crossing her tanned farmer’s arms over her chest. _Where were you?_ A thousand places, and nowhere at all. Solitude, Oblivion, Hjaalmarch...everywhere and nowhere. She hated lying to her family, but there were just things that were better untold. Better buried and forgotten.  
  
As Tharya sat at the table beside her older brother, and the others gathered around to listen, she tried her damndest to think of something convincing. Something simple, to remember later, but compelling. No holes. She could tell them she decided on a whim to visit Aldis, that wasn’t harmful. But she couldn’t say anything about Sanguine, or her pack, or, Divines, the Icerunner. She couldn’t tell them about so much...  
  
She never could.


	11. VIII. Out of the Cold

**9th of Sun’s Height**

**Two days I’ve been home, but this place feels so wrong. Seeing Imperials in the streets...seeing buildings burnt to a crisp or the scorch marks, and everyone trying to scrub the soot off the roads...it isn’t the same. It isn’t exactly home.**

Tharya paused as a table of Imperials exploded into laughter across the porch in front of the Bannered Mare. It was small, with only four tables all for three people or less, and sat on a ledge of the natural hill the Bannered Mare was constructed on. There was a canvas canopy extended over the porch to provide good, dark shade. It used to be a place of relaxation during the daytime, but the table of soldiers were the only other occupants of the porch besides her, and their presence had been anything but relaxing.

**I’ve thought about leaving again but I don’t want to do that to my family. Though it isn’t as if I have many obligations here besides them. Up until now my full-time job was being the Dragonborn—though I didn’t get paid shit. I suppose I could run a few jobs for the Companions, make some extra coin, but I’m not sure if I made Aela hate me or not. Probably. I’m not too keen to find out.**

“Give it up, hag! Your son is dead!” The voice rang loud and clear into the noon lull, piercing through the relative calm of the marketplace. The table of soldiers hardly spared a glance to the commotion.  
“Lies, I won’t hear it!” A woman’s voice replied, old but full of conviction. “You Battle-Born have always been liars. I know better than to listen to your lot.” A harsh, barking laugh. “Away from my goods, both of you!”  
“Look, Father, the old cow is mooing.” This voice was younger, male. Tharya stood from her table and shut her journal, closing the stubby pencil between the pages and transferring the book to one hand. There was a perfect view of the market from the porch, a perfect view of a young, blond man in red Imperial armor, and an older man, his face weathered and hair thick if grey, wearing a light, ornate tunic and a shortsword strapped to his hip. _Battle-Borns._ No matter their political alliances, they were the most pompous set of people Tharya had ever met. Idolaf especially, and now here he stood next to his father, mocking some poor old woman.  
  
Without thinking she turned and stalked into the Bannered Mare, quickly fishing out some septims to give to Hulda for her lunch before barreling out the door. Whether she was excited by the potential to have a purpose again or simply excited to kick a Battle-Born into next week, she wasn’t sure. Jogging down the steps that led into the marketplace, she heard Idolaf laugh in his arrogant rich boy way, and his father, Olfrid, joined him. To the Void with them both, Imperial bootkissers.  
  
“You wouldn’t understand. I _know_ my Thorald is alive—and I know you’re hiding him from me!”  
“Why, yes!” Olfrid crowed, raising his arms dramatically. By now there were other people watching the exchange uneasily. Tharya spotted Ysolda mingling around Carlotta’s stall, and Amren—a mercenary, if she remembered correctly—watching from the foot of the steps leading up to the Gildergreen. “I’ve got him locked away in my basement.”  
“Hey, asscravats,” Tharya tucked her journal under one arm, moving to wedge herself between Fralia’s jewelry stand and the two men. “Why are you ganging up on an old lady? Don’t you have butts to kiss?” Olfrid’s eyes burned with rage, but Idolaf spoke first.  
“How dare you! What did you just call my father?” He stepped forward, one hand on his sword.  
“Gonna fight me, Idolaf?” She laughed. “What did you even do to earn that armor? You never even went to war. You sat behind a _desk._ ”  
“Hold your tongue, woman!” The man roared, his face turning redder than the sash across his chest. “How dare you insult an officer!”  
Tharya shrugged. “Yessir, Private Paperwork.”  
  
Unexpectedly, the Imperials on the porch erupted into laughter again, repeating what would probably become Idolaf Battle-Born’s unfortunate new nickname among their ranks. It seemed they didn’t think much of him either.  
  
Idolaf grit his teeth so hard his jaw popped, and then aimed a thick finger at the woman behind the market stall.  
“ _Remove_ yourself, Dragonborn. This doesn’t concern you.”  
“You remove _your_ self. Why do you need to come shopping anyway?” She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have servants for that?”  
“Step **aside** , Dragonborn.” Olfrid said, eyes glimmering darkly. “The _hag_ behind you is a filthy Stormcloak traitor. Traitor!” He turned towards the rest of the market as he shouted that word. “Just like all the Grey-Manes!” For emphasis he spit on the stones between his feet.  
“The only traitor here will be me, when I betray the Greybeards and Shout you both into that well,” Tharya aimed a finger to the stone circle behind them, from which Ysolda had been trying to peacefully draw her water. “Run along, Imperial buttkissers.” Both men made to leave, Idolaf lingering for a moment before Olfrid snapped his fingers and obediently, his son followed. But he had hardly passed the well when Idolaf spun around, charged towards her, and flung one arm out to bring his hand down hard across her cheek.  
  
The slap rang in her ears like a struck bell, the force of it making her neck crack, sending her body back into the front of Fralia’s stall. Her journal and pencil tumbled from her grasp. The wood hit her spine brutally, but she was determined to stay on her feet. She had to, no matter the throbbing heat in her right cheek, no matter the strange, warm ache in her neck. Idolaf stared at her and she stared back at him, golden healing magic touching the fingertips pressed to her reddened face. A dense, unbreathable silence settled over the market. The soldiers on the porch were silent. Olfrid watched his son turn—with as much inflated dignity as a man who’d just hit the Dragonborn could—and stalk back towards him. Ysolda moved well away as they passed, and just like that the market began to drain of people. No one wanted to stick around after that.  
  
“Are you alright, girl? That was very foolish of you. Brave, but foolish,” the old woman tapped her shoulders lightly. As Tharya turned she recognized Fralia Grey-Mane, Eorlund’s wife. She wasn’t quite as old as she sounded; maybe on par with Olfrid, who was mostly silver, but still had some dark hair to him. Hers, however, was snowy white, yet her face not quite as wrinkled and aged as her voice.  
“Yeah, I’m okay. He slaps like a sissy,” she lied. Fralia pulled her hand away to examine the deepening print Idolaf had left. It would linger for the day, but it wouldn’t bruise thanks to her magic. “What about you? They were being total jerks.” Fralia chuckled gently. The woman circled her stall on light feet and bent to retrieve her journal from the soot-stained cobblestones, brushing it gently with one hand.  
“I have lived with the Battle-Borns through peace and war, as friend and foe, Dragonborn. Their words sting less when you have known them as friends.”  
“I would think that makes them sting more,” Tharya mumbled. “What was all that about your son? Where is he?” Fralia’s features fell into a mix of sadness and awareness, and the woman glanced quietly around the marketplace before taking Tharya’s hand.  
“Would you walk an old woman home, Dragonborn?” She hooked their arms together, leaving Tharya little choice. As if she’d say no, anyway.  
  


Together they exited the market and journeyed up the stairs leading to the Wind District, pausing below the dappled shade of the Gildergreen.  
“Come to dinner, Dragonborn. I insist,” Fralia spoke finally, with such a strange tone—somewhere between urgency and confidence—Tharya didn’t dare do anything but nod. “I will tell you about my son then. Perhaps Avulstein...” she gazed up at the big tree. “Perhaps you are the one we’ve been waiting for.”

  
  


**Middas, 27th of Frostfall, 4E 207, 3:57 A.M.**

“He _hit_ you?” Miraak growled into the darkness, his shoulders tight and bunched in anger. “That-” and then he went off into a long string of violent-sounding Atmoran curses. “Show him to me next time we return home, so _I_ can hit _him._ ”  
“No way, big guy,” she laughed and gently patted his chest. “You’d break his neck if I let you slap him.”  
“That is the idea,” he grumbled. “Filthy imbecile.”  
“Alright, alright. This was years ago,” Tharya reminded him. “And he probably doesn’t even remember it.”  
Miraak grit his teeth. “He will.” After a moment the Atmoran settled stiffly back against the pillows, and huffed. “You may continue.”

  
  


Tharya didn’t own many dresses. In fact, her wardrobe was severely limited because of the fact she hadn’t been home in a year, and whatever clothes she left behind at the end of the previous three summers to attend college in Cyrodiil had slowly been absorbed into Lilika’s collection. Though Lilika was shorter than her and had an actual bust to speak of, they were mostly the same size. Tharya didn’t like tight-fitting things anyway. So here she was, letting Lilika scour through a trunk of her clothes, and clothes that had once been Tharya’s but had since been appropriated.  
  
“Ooh, how about this blue dress?” With a smile the youngest Sun-Sword sibling lifted a cotton dress, a bright, dawn blue that wrapped around the torso and could be tied in the front. Judging by the heat outside, it would be perfect for the night. She worried about its plainness in front of a prestigious family like the Grey-Manes, but...well, she was the Dragonborn. They would have to deal with it.  
“Yeah, that’s nice.” She didn’t own many dresses, and she didn’t particularly enjoy wearing them; so she told herself.  
“I have a cute necklace that would look good, maybe some earrings—you don’t have your ears pierced, do you?” Lilika squinted at her.  
“No,” she replied.  
“Aw. You’d look so pretty with earrings,” the bard smiled brightly again before tossing the dress to her. The skirt was a little wrinkled from being packed away...she’d have to get Anari to iron it out before she left. Lilika extracted a small wooden box, painted white, and opened the lid to pull out the necklace she’d mentioned; a small gold chain with a little star hanging from it.  
  
An hour later, as dusk fell, with dress ironed and the necklace donned, Lilika dragged a brush gently through Tharya’s hair and then tied it back away from her face and neck with a silver ribbon. Tharya argued ribbons were childish, too girlish, but Lilika and Anari shoved her out the door with a freshly baked loaf of bread, made that morning without the knowledge of her impending dinner with the Grey-Manes. She walked slowly with an uncomfortable tightness in her shoulders. This dress, the fabric, even having her hair up...it all felt _exposing._ She longed for the comfort of her ruana, even in the heat, of her good traveling boots. Her legs felt odd more or less unclothed except for the light leather boots that stopped at her knees. Her arms felt too light, her chest too open. Still...there was a part of her that would always secretly enjoy dressing up. Though she, of course, would never admit it. It was nice to have a reminder that she _could_ be _pretty_ , if she let herself.  
  
Approaching the Grey-Mane home, Tharya shook all those thoughts out of her head. They were ridiculous, airheaded thoughts, and she couldn’t afford that kind of frivolity at this moment.  
  
The Grey-Manes had a large bronze knocker affixed to heavy wooden double doors, wide enough to fit two men abreast. She had hardly knocked three times when a servant opened it and let her inside.  
“Welcome, Dragonborn. Please, make yourself at home,” the man smiled. Sometimes it was easy to forget Eorlund Grey-Mane, a roughened and sooty blacksmith, went home to servants and maids each night. Even if it wasn’t a huge staff, it was _a_ staff, and that was more than Tharya had ever boasted. “What’s this?”  
“Oh. Bread,” she let the wrapped loaf be taken from her arms. “My, uhm—my mother made it.” Divines. Did that sound stupid? Quaint? Was she just a quaint country girl bringing bread her sweet little Mama had made to a family like the Grey-Manes?  
“How lovely!” The man looked delighted, but she couldn’t tell how much of it was genuine. “Please, right this way. The family just sat for dinner. We’ve been expecting you.”  
“Am I late?” She asked hurriedly, following after the servant.  
“Not at all, Dragonborn.” He chuckled. “Besides, a woman of your standing is never late. She simply arrives when she does.” _Divines, I’m late._

There were five silver heads seated at the table in the main dining room, with two seats left empty. She tried not to gawk at the house around her, tried not to jump when her boots landed on a finely woven rug. Each face at the table lifted to see her; none of them were stranger to the streets of Whiterun. At the head was Vignar Grey-Mane, his skin weathered and tough, his hair tinged an elderly grey compared to the heads around them. Across from him at the foot was Eorlund, wearing a tunic—odd to see his torso so covered, and his face so _clean_ . To Eorlund’s right, Fralia, and Olfina beside her. Across from Fralia...Avulstein Grey-Mane.  
  
“Dragonborn!” Vignar crowed, gesturing with his fork to the empty seats beside Avulstein. “Do come sit. We just began.” Without a word the youngest son of Clan Grey-Mane stood and gently pulled her chair out for her with an expectant and curious gaze. _Divines. Divines. I’m late, I’m underdressed, and I brought them_ **_bread_ ** _._ Regardless, she circled the table with stiff strides and sat in the proffered chair with a quiet _thank you_ . Before she could, Avulstein extended a hand for her to shake. A surprise, that one, but nonetheless Tharya took it, glad for some semblance of normalcy. Olfina, right across from her, smiled kindly. A perfect, womanly smile.  
  
“It is an honor to share a table with you, Dragonborn,” Avulstein said in a smooth, contemplative voice from her side.  
“Yes, indeed!” Vignar raised his goblet her way.  
“Oh, please, no toasts,” Tharya said before she could stop herself. A dense silence settled over the table, and she tried to diffuse it with a laugh. “Save them for something more worthy of your wine!” Vignar laughed raucously and Olfina joined in. Eorlund chortled lightly and went back to eating.  
“I believe mere wine to be worthy of your humility, Dragonborn,” Avulstein raised a cup to her anyway with a smile—why did that make her stomach jump?—and drank deeply. Luckily her plate had been filled by some disembodied arm while her attention was elsewhere, so there was something to occupy her hands rather than clenching them into her skirt and making new wrinkles.

Dinner passed relatively smoothly; the Grey-Manes chatted amongst themselves, mostly about the war and the Imperial control of the city. Avulstein spoke aside to her a couple times whenever Vignar would go off on his rants. He was surprisingly soft-spoken, but every word he said was firm with confidence. He reminded her of Jorstus. Occasionally she would catch him glancing at her from the corner of his eye, though she couldn’t read the expression on his face. It almost looked like...admiration? Curiosity? A mix of both.  
  
The night wore on peacefully, the city outside cooling rapidly as darkness fell. Finally there was a lull in the chatter from Vignar and Olfina, and Tharya pressed her hands together in her lap.  
“Um...who is this chair for?” She gestured to the empty seat on her right. The question had been bugging her all night. Had they been expecting someone else? If so, he or she had never come. But there was a plate, silverware, and a napkin placed atop the table as if awaiting another guest.  
  
Immediately she knew she should not have asked, by the way Eorlund sat back in his chair with a sigh, and Fralia looked down at her skirt.  
“Olfina, girl,” Vignar’s voice was suddenly rough and low, strained under an immense weight, “bring the papers.” As he spoke, Avulstein gently patted the table near her cup.  
“Don’t look so concerned, Dragonborn,” he soothed. “You are right to ask. This is, after all...” he shot his eyes across the table to Fralia, “why my mother brought you here.” Olfina stood and made her way to a small cabinet on the outskirts of the room, below the stairs leading up. She rummaged around for a moment, and there were a few distinct _clicks_ before she returned to the table and sat.  
“Dragonborn,” Fralia began, “you are a native of Whiterun. Surely you remember my other son, Thorald?” _Thorald?_ Tharya blinked slowly. Thorald...truthfully she didn’t remember much of him beyond his name and his face from childhood, but there definitely had been another Grey-Mane son...  
“Yeah, Thorald. A little bit,” she nodded in return.  
“The Dragonborn and I were friends in our youth,” Avulstein supplied. Her stomach knotted again, even though he spoke true, and she willed a blush away. Glancing briefly at him out of the side of her peripheral, Avulstein Grey-Mane _was_ handsome, with a strong face and a prominent brow, a youthful, silvery beard cut close to his jaw and soft hair that touched his shoulders. “Thorald would play with us sometimes.”

  
“Yes, Thorald...all I can think about is my son, my Thorald.” Fralia reached out for Eorlund’s hand on the table, and the big blacksmith took it with all the gentleness of a flower in the morning dew. “They say he was killed, but I know better!” Fralia said firmly, looking at Tharya and not looking away. “I _know_ he’s alive. Those Battle-Borns...they know it too, and still have the audacity to lie to my very face!” She looked like she was resisting the urge to spit. Avulstein’s fingers curled into a tight fist on his thigh.  
“At first we didn’t know what to think,” Olfina said quietly, placing a rolled scroll on the table. “I wanted Thorald to be alive but...” Tharya raised an eyebrow, feeling her insecurities slip away and her mind revert to Dragonborn business.  
“What do you mean, where is he? Did he fight in the war?” She asked. Avulstein nodded, flexing his palm.  
“Yes. Thorald left when the war first broke out to fight for the Stormcloaks. He would send us letters back sometimes, but one day they just stopped coming. And then we received word that he’d been killed,” Avulstein quirked an eyebrow. “But the letter wasn’t signed by Imperials or Stormcloaks.”  
“The Thalmor,” Eorlund spoke finally, stroking Fralia’s hand. “It was signed by a Thalmor Justiciar.”  
Slowly, Tharya nodded. It was all coming together now. “A major mistake, on their part,” she hummed.  
“Yes,” Avulstein looked at her, his eyes a little wide.  
“Holding the son of one of the elite families in Skyrim is probably a chip they knew they could bargain with later on,” she went on, nodding. “Sorry—that’s crude. I’m just surprised they were sloppy enough to sign the missive themselves, the Thalmor are...dangerously impeccable like that.”  
  
Without a word Fralia nodded to her daughter and Olfina handed the scroll across the table to Tharya. The paper was cold to the touch—likely it’d been stored in the wall behind the cabinet, then. There was a red ribbon that had once been tied expertly around it, but was now loose and rumpled. She lifted the scroll to her nose and inhaled deeply. Lycanthropy wasn’t something she was proud of, but with her survival skills it was sometimes easy to write it off as mere talent honed over many years. Avulstein looked expectantly at her.  
“This was in a leather container, once,” she made the vague shape of a cylinder with her hands. “Where did you get it?” Vaguely she heard Eorlund mumble about _such a sharp nose._  
“That is not important,” Vignar put in immediately, thick eyebrows settling over his steely gaze. Tharya apologized in a quiet voice.  
“No,” Fralia said after a long moment. “If the Dragonborn should even entertain the idea of helping us—she deserves the truth.”  
Tharya nodded at Olfina slowly. “None of you could’ve snuck into the Battle-Born house. Jon gave this to you?” The light-haired woman across from her flushed a little before nodding. Eorlund’s jaw dropped. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to sell you out. I like Jon, he’s a good guy.” The Dragonborn tried her most warming smile. “He’s not like the other Battle-Borns. But it _was_ in a container—I hope you left that wherever you got it from?”  
Olfina looked shocked and then nodded, raising an eyebrow. “Yes, Jon said he only took the letter.”  
“Good. It would be too suspicious if the entire thing was missing.” Slowly she undid the ribbon and unrolled the paper.

It was quick, short, but written in precise handwriting with bold strokes. Soldier’s handwriting, if she ever saw it. And it was signed by...

**_24th of Rain’s Hand, 4E 201_ **

**_It has come to my attention that inquiries have been made as to the whereabouts of one Thorald Grey-Mane. It is my duty to inform you that Thalmor agents have taken possession of the prisoner and have escorted him to Northwatch Keep._ ** **_  
_ ** **_  
_ ** **_I don’t think I need to elaborate. It is in everyone’s best interest if the matter is dropped entirely. I trust there will be no further inquiries on this matter._ **

**_Gen. Tullius_ **

“Tullius,” Tharya murmured to herself, feeling a shudder grip her spine. Her hands and the scroll fell to her lap.  
“Northwatch Keep,” Avulstein repeated in a growl, now sitting back in his seat with thick arms crossed over his chest. “We _know_ where he is. We know where to hit them.”  
“Respectfully,” she aimed the question for the man beside her, “why haven’t you gone, then? There’s no way you were waiting for me.”  
Avulstein half-glared at her, but it quickly changed to an expression of gratitude. “No, but someone _like_ you.”  
“I...don’t understand.”  
“My brother has a group of men who are willing to ride to Northwatch Keep with him and break Thorald out,” Olfina said, “assuming you can take an entire fort of Thalmor with only a handful of people.”  
Tharya shrugged. “I’ve taken out whole forts of bandits before. The Thalmor are better trained but...it’s the same concept.” Fralia’s eyes widened at that statement. From the head of the table, Vignar cleared his throat.  
  
“That settles it, then,” he said, standing from his chair, “the Dragonborn will ride with you at first light, Avulstein.” Tharya gaped.  
“What? I didn’t agree to anything,” she said, standing as well. Almost immediately Avulstein was on his feet, and wrapping one hand lightly around her arm.  
“Then I will ask: will you come? My mother has been delaying our departure for too long. She thinks I don’t have enough people, but I know those men, and I know their mettle.” His eyes were pleading. “And I _know_ she wouldn’t have asked you here unless she thought you were right for the job. Dragonborn,” he added that last word respectfully.  
  
Tharya held the gazes of each member of Clan Grey-Mane in turn, all now on their feet, Eorlund’s strong arm around his wife and Olfina holding her grandfather’s hand. They all had the same look of hurt in their eyes. Avulstein squeezed her arm.  
“Dragonborn?” Tharya looked down at the scroll and then set it gently back on the table. The ribbon fluttered to the floor.  
  
“Yeah,” she said finally, nodding first at Avulstein. “I’ll come.”

  
  


**27th of Frostfall, 4E 207, 4:24 A.M.**

Miraak had gone still a half hour ago, but Tharya knew he was still listening. His _dovah_ , at least, was hooked intently onto every word she spoke. She paused for a long moment to see if he was truly asleep, and her instincts wrong, but he rolled onto his side and tucked one hand between his cheek and the pillow, bright golden eyes blinking slowly.  
“Where is this Northwatch Keep?” He muttered.  
“Haafingar. Towards the northwestern coast,” she replied, reaching out to stroke his hair. He sighed against the cloth pillowcase. “I suggested we not go through Haafingar, though. So we took the long way...up north to Dawnstar, and then we would follow the coastline around Solitude, and turn south a little to follow it down to the keep.” The First Dragonborn pressed a yawn into his fist, finally letting his eyes close as she gently traced his cheek. “Dawnstar...what a horrible idea that was,” Tharya chuckled softly, “we should’ve never stopped there.”  
“Why?”  
“Do you really have more hours of storytelling in you, big guy?” She smiled at him, fingertips gliding down the side of his neck to his shoulder and back up again. “Get some rest. I kept you up long enough.”  
Miraak grinned tiredly.

“I would rather you keep me up at night than anything else, _elskavin._ ” She rolled her eyes. How typical.  
  
Tharya scooted closer so she could press her forehead to his, sliding her fingers into his hair to rub his scalp.  
“Go to sleep,” she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss against his brow. In a series of slow, lazy motions Miraak wrapped his arms around her, resting his head against her chest. He was asleep before he was even fully still.  
  
She didn’t sleep that night; she didn’t need to. Beast blood was finicky when it came to things like that...she could sleep normally for two or three nights a week and not have to sleep for the other three or four. Miraak was the very opposite. When he was just out of Apocrypha—besides being in a month long coma—he slept like a rock from sundown to sunup. He probably would’ve slept whole days away if she hadn’t dragged him around Skyrim. Probably would’ve eaten whole graineries, too, and drank the White River dry if he could. After four thousand years of no rest, no food, no water, his body was desperate to catch up. By the time they had gone to Yokuda he seemed to be descending into normalcy, though the man still slept like a boulder and still ate enough to feed a small family.  
  
No, she didn’t sleep that night, but sometimes it was worth it to stay awake just to stroke his hair and whisper things she didn’t have the confidence by daylight to say, knowing he was so deep in slumber he wouldn’t be nearly awake enough to hear a word of it.

  
  


That morning Miraak woke to no one but himself, the Last Dragonborn having been replaced in his arms with a flimsy pillow. His head had the particularly tingly feeling of being stroked repeatedly, and his eyes didn’t seem to want to stay open. Pushing the pillow away he turned on his back with a groan, stretched his too-long legs under the too-short covers, and threw an arm over his eyes. If they didn’t want to stay open, so be it.  
  
But he didn’t exactly sleep. Having been moved and alerted, his body began to wake up, and soon he was staggering out of bed, standing on his toes to stretch— _you’re too old for this_ , each popping joint and crackling vertebrae proclaimed—before slowly getting dressed. Miraak had given himself a mission when Tharya said they were coming to High Hrothgar, and, peering out the window to see it was no longer morning but early afternoon, decided today would be the day to carry out his objective.

It was odd to think that he had ever become accustomed to _getting dressed_ , but the routine was simple. Trousers, first, always. Lace them up. Then, since these were the _autumn robes_ , a ruddy mahogany with golden threads (he was well aware Tharya spoiled him), the first layer: a fitted, thick cotton shirt. He still didn't know why Tharya insisted on such tight sleeves—other than the ability to ogle his arms to her little heart's content. There were brass cuffs that had come from his original robes that fit perfectly around his biceps, and another pair that went around his wrists. Those slid easily into place. Next was the outer layer, sleeveless, the usual outer robe with the skirt split both in the front and back. He examined the two necklaces sitting on his collarbone in the mirror, lightly fingering the phial. It seemed to glow softly. 

Miraak eyed his gloves, the last thing sitting where he had neatly folded his clothes the night before. They no longer had their pinecone-esque decorations from the Merethic Era; new gloves, now fitted with thin plates of metal that curved around his forearms. Bracers. The leather had been worn in nicely over the last two years, though he hadn't worn them much in Yokuda. Those, though, always came last. Instead he went for his boots. A lighter leather, with the same kind of steel plating cupping around the toes, flattening out over the top of his foot and circling his ankles. They were tall, reaching his thighs, but that was just the way he liked them.

Leather and cloth...two things he had forgotten about in Apocrypha, hadn't felt in so long, and now they were completely normal to him.  
  
By the time he left the makeshift little room and combed his fingers through his hair, there was not a single trace of the bedridden man from fifteen minutes ago left. Tharya had commented on it once, his many different facets, different faces, different postures, different gaits, different mannerisms. In his mind, all were equally necessary. That’s what the priesthood had taught him, and if there was anything left of his old life he was willing to cling to, it would be that.  
  
Arngeir greeted him curtly in the hall but Miraak ignored him; another talent of his, ignoring people blatantly. His feet brought him to the heavy, wide metal doors that led outside to the courtyard and then onto the cold summit of the Throat of the World. Here the snow hardly vanished and the ice never seemed to melt entirely. The stone courtyard was still glistening with frost. On his left, towards a large, freestanding gate near the side of the mountain, he noted a figure swinging an axe down through a piece of wood. So the Greybeards had her doing their chores? How disgustingly like them. Still, he kept his mouth shut and his purpose in sight, remembering Tharya had spoken the night previous of her past self craving _purpose_ and _meaning_ . Miraak strode across the courtyard and didn’t pause when the steady _thwack_ of axe and wood stopped. He scaled the icy steps and came to a halt at the squarish threshold that framed the path up the mountain. Just past the stone there was a blizzard whipping and curling against the rockface, howling even in the middle of the day.  
  
With practiced ease the First Dragonborn inhaled deeply and rolled his shoulders back, forming three words in the very center of his chest, and then with a smooth shifting of his feet and curling of his arms delivered them through the gateway.

_Lok...vah_ **_kool!_ **

With a deafening crack and a slight tremble in the air around them, the storm shattered. Winds died against the mountain, snow drifts halted mid-formation. Not wasting another moment, the First Dragonborn stepped through the boxy arch and began his climb up the mountain. The weather would only hold for maybe twenty minutes before the storm—he had no doubt it was magical in nature—would return, blinding him and freezing him to the bone. He Shouted six times in total to keep the mountain path clear on his climb, and by the time he spotted the flattened summit, there was a tingling rawness in his throat that not even swallowing could soothe.  
  
“I see you have taken your sweet time,” a rumbly voice said from the summit as he approached, and Miraak flicked his hood up, squinting against the blinding whiteness around him. “Your kind were made for the _strunmahhe?_ _Geh?_ ”  
“We were made for many things,” Miraak breathed deeply, slowly, not risking the image of being out of breath in front of the dragon. “Mountains, cold, dragonslaying.”  
“Pah! Barbarian,” Odahviing crouched low and shoved his snout in Miraak’s face, exhaling heavily from his nostrils. The Atmoran’s robes fluttered. “ _Grutiik._ I would like to sever your head between my teeth, _Jul-Diin._ ”  
“The feeling is mutual, then,” he sneered with an impassive face.  
  
Atop his half-crumbled Word Wall, Paarthurnax shifted to eye Miraak wearily, adjusting his wings before nodding his head once in respect. A sudden wave of awareness washed over the Atmoran; he became conscious of his lack of both sword and staff. Of course there was his _shehai_ but it didn't feel quite right, being unarmed in the presence of an enemy.  
“Welcome, _thur._ ”  
“ _Thur?_ ” The Dragonborn echoed. “ _Hi koraav zey thur?_ ”  
“ _Thur_ has many meanings,” Paarthurnax hummed, “it is not simply, hm... _thur_. All words... _lost kogaan_ , with many meanings.”  
“Tyrant,” Odahviing snapped behind him. _Thur._ Overlord, lord, king, master, someone who rules absolutely; tyrant. Despite the dragon’s tone, Miraak felt himself grin, turning to the ruby worm.  
“For one to be a tyrant, others must recognize that they are in a position of superior power and standing,” he drawled, watching Odahviing’s hackles rise. “You admit I am your better? How kind.”  
He growled out his reply. “Why have you sullied _revak golt_ with your taint?”  
  
Standing quietly for a moment between the two dragons, Miraak felt turmoil stir in his chest, but calmed it. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t be rid of them. Though he was sure Paarthurnax would not exactly resist, Odahviing would—and then rally the rest of the dragons who, despite their hiding, and their apparent tutorship by the elderly dragon in the Way of the Voice, were undoubtedly more than eager to kill him. He who had killed twenty-four of their brothers. He quelled his inner _dovah_ for now.  
  
“I have come to make myself clear. I am not going to kill you, either of you,” he glanced back at Odahviing slowly, “though do not think it is out of the kindness of my heart.”

“You have no heart to give kindness from, _Jul-Diin_ ,” Odahviing rumbled.  
“I do so for the sake of-”  
“ _Dovahkiin_ ,” Paarthurnax cut him off with a gentle nod of his huge head. “Your _tasnah_ is surprising, _thur_ .”  
Miraak grimaced. “It is not compassion. Do not take it for such. I do not forgive you for what you did four thousand years ago. Who you took from me and the flesh you scarred cannot be replaced.” His hand itched to touch his chest...those long, three marks that had nearly killed him so long ago. He remembered the pain of Paarthurnax’s claw sinking through his torso, tearing his skin, cutting ribs like string, very nearly sawing his heart in two. He remembered when Tharya had first touched the scar in Winterhold, three, almost four years ago now. And he remembered every time she had touched the scar since, her fingers light and cool as an autumn wind. Each time, a ghost of the pain it had brought initially lurked under his skin. “And you are not forgiven. But I will not pursue your destruction, so much as I may wish to.”  
  
The old dragon swung his head to Odahviing, who huffed, and then looked back at Miraak. He closed his eyes slowly and then nodded, adjusting his wings.  
“I apologize for the loss of your _vahdins do vulon_ , _Sonaak._ ” He said. “Had I known then what I have been blessed with now-”  
“Save your breath,” Miraak butt in, his hands curling and uncurling tightly behind his back. “I did not come for pity. I came to make it clear that what I do, I do only for Tharya.” Why was his throat tight? “I will not pursue you, nor you, me. I will not help you, nor aid Tharya in helping you. No matter what kind of peaceful activism you have turned to,” he dug his nails into the leather of his gloves, “ _I_ will remember the violence you once condoned.”

A dense silence settled over the three, one he wasn’t keen to stand around for. Without bothering to hear if Paarthurnax would reply he turned and stalked by Odahviing, stepped directly through the distorted air of the Time Wound, and vanished back on the path down the mountain.

  
  


Tharya didn’t know how long it had been since Miraak had gone up the mountain. Around noon she’d heard his Voice shake through the Throat of the World, sending a shock through her gut. It was the Clear Skies Shout—so he was going up to Paarthurnax after all. That made her worry. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Miraak, but Paarthurnax had fought him, scarred him, killed his _vahdins_ . No, **eaten** his _vahdins_ . In front of him. She trusted Miraak, but there was no telling what he planned on doing once he reached the summit.  
  
Luckily, she didn’t hear his Voice after that until he began what she assumed was his descent. Nearly four hours after he had first started his climb, as evening fell, his presence reappeared in her _dovah’s_ senses; he’d made it down.  
  
After chopping wood Tharya had found herself having lunch with Arngeir, and then offering to fix up the Greybeards’ little garden. Between trips from the people of Ivarstead and whatever they could grow themselves, it was usually enough to get by. She didn’t tell Arngeir, but this upcoming winter worried her. The seasons had been all out of place after the Blue Star Break, and though Miraak said the worst of it had probably passed in the last two years, it had gotten cold earlier than usual this year. Kneeling on the firm ground, her hands numb with chill, finally the last of their small winter crop was planted, thanks to magic and her own determination. When she stood, she caught sight of Miraak crossing the courtyard towards her, one hand on his chest and rubbing it slowly as if trying to soothe away an ache. He was looking ahead but not entirely seeing anything, not entirely fixed on anything. She let him draw close before walking out to meet him.  
  
“Are you alright?” The Atmoran looked a little startled when she spoke. There was a strange kind of storm brewing in his eyes.  
“ _Geh._ ” He replied. Tharya tucked her hands snugly under her arms in an attempt to warm them.  
“You talked with Paarthurnax?” Her only response was a nod. “That’s alright. We don’t have to talk about it.” Admittedly the Nord was curious to know what exactly he talked about, but didn’t press. Miraak glanced at her arms and then at her paling lips, and made a gesture for her hands.  
“By the Mighty, woman,” he muttered, rubbing them fiercely between his gloved palms. “Could you not dress warmer?” Without a thought the Atmoran placed both her hands high on his ribcage and sandwiched them under his biceps.  
Tharya smiled. “Maybe I just wanted you to do the thing.” She nodded to his arms. Miraak rolled his eyes. It was plain he wasn’t satisfied, though with what she couldn’t guess. Unsatisfied, unhappy. “Are you up for more story hour?”  
“You did not tell me about the road to Dawnstar, nor why it was so horrible,” he pointed out.  
“Well, the road wasn’t horrible. It took us, oh, five days on horseback to get there. Avulstein had about seven other guys and another woman, so there was ten of us in all. He was pretty intent on getting to Northwatch, but he’s a good guy.”

Miraak was quiet for a bit before replying finally, squeezing her hands a little under his arms.  
“He seemed to like you quite a bit, yes?”

“Uh, I don’t know.” she shrugged, damning the flush that crept up her neck to thaw her face.  
“But you are blushing,” he pointed out in that annoyingly smug voice.  
Tharya swallowed. “I guess he might’ve, but I didn’t do anything about it.” He scoffed.  
“You did not even sleep with him once?” This was one of those moments where Miraak’s absolute bluntness caught her off guard. She’d gotten used to it, but sometimes he just threw things out there that made her equal parts confused and embarrassed.  
“No, you idiot,” she mumbled.

“Hm?” He pinched her sides. “Speak up, _elskavin_ , I cannot hear you. I am old, you know.”  
“No, no!” She squirmed away from his hands, but her trapped arms kept her within his reach. “I said no! Why would I do that?”  
Miraak hummed and then shrugged. “Do you need a reason? I would have, if I were you.” She froze at that statement, and then opted to burrow herself into his chest. The Atmoran let out a rare, quiet laugh, putting his arms around her. “By the way he so obviously fawned over you...” She wrapped her arms tightly around his middle, or at least as far around as she could reach. “As long as he treated you well—unlike _Idolaf_. He is right to admire you. Though...perhaps I am a little jealous.” She blushed all over again. Gods damn it, that was right. Why couldn’t she have just left that detail out? Especially when she and Miraak hadn’t...

“I-it’s getting late,” she observed, desperate for a change in topic. Truthfully, it was only evening, which in the winter meant late afternoon. The Atmoran still held her to his chest, rubbing his gloved fingers absently through her hair. Surrounded by frigid mountain air, he was a beacon of heat and warmth that she was glad to be enveloped in. And glad, too, he was done pestering her about Avulstein.“Do you want to go inside?” She perched her chin on his sternum and looked up at him, but his eyes were glued to the vibrant sunset.  
“In a moment,” he replied. She followed his gaze to the western sky, set ablaze by crimson and lavender and gold and not a cloud in sight. “It is nice to know the world is real, sometimes.”  
  
Tharya closed her eyes and let the slow sound of his heartbeat fill her head. Four years out of Apocrypha and still he marveled at the fresh air on his skin, the heat from the sun in his eyes. More than once he’d removed his boots just to feel grass and dirt below his toes, and always he was eager to be in water, whether it was pond, lake, stream. Water that wasn’t black and slick and oily. She felt the First Dragonborn’s chest expand as he inhaled deeply when a breeze rushed down from the mountain, chilling her to the bone. _The northern wind was born in Atmora._

  
They stood there together until the sun dipped below the horizon and shrouded the world in a flimsy greyness, and Miraak lifted his eyes directly above him to the sky. The first stars were coming in the east, winking into the cloudless night with practiced ease.  
  
Yes, the heavens would heal just fine, he knew. Tharya shivered against him again and he squeezed her sides before repeating her suggestion to go indoors. The heavens above would be just fine, and his heaven on earth would be even moreso.


	12. a/n: 11.20

hello all, usually i try not to interrupt chapters like this with little author's notes, but i do have some unfortunate news; a member of my immediate family has tested positive for COVID-19, and the rest of us are currently scrambling to understand not only what this means for us—how it will impact our lives, what we should be doing, who we should be in contact with—but the absolute gravity of the situation. i can tell you it is crushing. on top of this i am approaching the finals for my first semester of college, completely remote, and dealing with internal family troubles.

due to these circumstances _revenant_ will not be updating this week (11.20.20) and most likely not next week (11.27.20) either. i truly apologize for this mini hiatus and for the recent irregularity of the posting schedule. i simply can't get the writing necessary done at this moment. 

as always, your comments and kudos are timeless and appreciated on my pieces—they are very often a source of happiness and allow me to sit in my inbox for an hour while reading through all the great messages left to me over time. thank you all for being an understanding, engaging, and lovely audience! i hope to return the week of the 27th with a new chapter.

valete!


	13. IX. Towers and Shadows

**Turdas, 15th of Sun’s Height, 4E 202**

“Now, the Dragonborn suggested we go around Haafingar totally,” Avulstein said, putting one finger on Solitude. A collective groan went up around the table.   
“How many miles of coastline is that?” One of them asked, squinting at the map on the table. Elgard, the only other woman in the company.    
“About two hundred,” another man piped up.   
“Only one-eighty, if we play our cards right,” Tharya put in. She was well aware most of them didn’t think she was capable of much, even if she was the Dragonborn. She wasn’t as tall as Elgard, nor as buff, and carried around a staff for Talos’s sake, and a sword she never used. Compared to them, only her blonde hair and white skin made her a Nord. It still irked her the way it did before, their looks of obvious disappointment. “We’ll have to cross the channel, but if timed right-”   
“ _ Timed? _ ” Halgi crowed, throwing one arm up. “Timed for what, exactly?”   
  
She looked across the table to Avulstein, who looked torn, staring intently at the map. They  _ could _ pass directly through Haafingar. But that was the seat of Imperial power. There would be plenty of patrols, plenty of chances for slip-ups. And if they were to pass through Haafingar, then coming to Dawnstar had just been an unnecessary detour. They’d already started on the stealthy route, why go back now?

“It would take us nine or ten days to traverse that coastline in full. If we can find a ship,” the idea bounced into her head before she could even properly think of it.   
“Take a ship to the channel?” Avulstein raised an eyebrow and turned his head to her. An immediate flush overtook her face, even in the cold Dawnstar inn. She hadn’t missed him stealing glances and being extra friendly in the last few days of travel, and she certainly hadn’t expected him to... _ get a grip _ , she snipped in her head, looking away.  _ A boy looks at you and suddenly you lose all coherent thoughts? Not that you had many to begin with _ .   
  
“Possibly. But,” she raised a finger and gestured for the map, shivering away the feeling of a phantom hand on her back. “If we can find a ship, someone who’s leaving either today and tomorrow, and have them  _ meet us _ at the channel to take us across, that’ll save us time.”   
“Why not just take a ship?” Veln huffed, crossing his fur-clad arms.   
“Do you think anyone will have room for ten people and their horses?” Tharya asked. “Even if they do, they’ll earn a lot more money shipping cargo, and what we have combined in septims probably won’t be enough.” Veln made to reply, but his words were drowned out by the slamming of the door, thrown open so hard it ricocheted off the wall.   
“Erandur!” The man who had entered looked to be a blacksmith, by his apron and the soot covering his hands and neck. The entire inn seemed to stop moving as he trudged in. Was he...crying? His face was contorted grimly, cheeks red and splotchy. He stomped across the floor towards a Dunmer lingering in the corner, wearing pale brown priest robes. “These nightmares are still coming! When are you going to do something about them?”   
  
Tharya watched as all of Dawnstar seemed to crowd around the door, some filtering in while others remained just at the threshold, craning to see. They all looked...exhausted. A wave of hideous magic washed over her as they appeared, something vile, something dark. Tharya clutched the table in an attempt to stay upright. What could all these people have lingering over them? Or were they themselves the magic users? They all felt...they reminded her of how Rorikstead felt. Uneasy, dark. But there didn’t look to be a mage among them.    
  
“My apologies, serah. I know the nightmares are still a problem,” the Dunmer priest replied, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. He sounded just as exhausted as the others looked. “Please, put your trust in Lady Mara. I am working on a solution,” he was addressing the whole inn now, even the corner of strangers gathered around a table and a map. “I have made some very promising progress...please, just a day or two more. Place your trust in Lady Mara.” That scant explanation seemed to be enough for the people of Dawnstar, who looked more than ready to return to their beds. Tharya was sure that, even though it was morning, some of them would. The priest’s shoulders slumped as the inn emptied out, and the heavy feeling of magic left with them.   
  
“We should go around the coast,” Avulstein announced to their group, but Tharya barely heard it. That priest... “Dragonborn?”   
“Just a moment,” she muttered, and drifted away from the table to approach the Dunmer. “Scuse me,” she said, bowing her head a little to the man. “Um...what was all that about?”   
“Serah,” he sighed in reply, “please don’t worry yourself. The nightmares don’t seem to affect travelers, as long as you don’t stay here more than a few days.”   
“Nightmares?” The Dunmer’s eyes sharpened after a moment, and he took her in slowly as if he hadn’t truly registered her until now.    
“Have I seen your face before, serah?” He murmured, and then cleared his throat. “No, pardon me. You asked—yes, nightmares,” seemingly unable to focus on any one thing, the priest pulled at his sleeves. “There have been nightmares in the city, yes. Recurring nightmares, for...maybe a month now.” Tharya whistled lowly. A month of recurring nightmares that only affected the natives of Dawnstar—there was not a doubt in her mind it was a magical occurrence, but what could possibly be causing it?   
  
“Do you have any idea why it’s happening?” Tharya slid back onto one of the tall stools near the bar, and the Dunmer sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. From across the room Avulstein and the others were watching her—she heard Veln grumble loudly about her apparent lack of commitment.   
“I have some ideas, I believe I know who is responsible for this, but...” he trailed off. “Facing her alone would be utter foolishness.”   
She raised an eyebrow. “Her?” The priest looked carefully around the inn; only her traveling companions remained, and most of them were openly watching their conversation. Less intent on hearing it, it seemed, and more intent on glaring daggers at Tharya. Drawing closer, he dropped his eyes.   
“The Daedric Prince Vaermina deals in nightmares and memories. I believe there was once a shrine to her here, in Dawnstar, but it has been abandoned; but she will always return to sate her hunger. And now she has,” slowly he shook his head. “The nightmares are residue. An echo of her presence as she feeds. At first it was only a few people, and I cleansed them. But now the whole city.”   
“Goes beyond a mere cleansing,” Tharya nodded along, as outlandish as it sounded. Vaermina she had never interacted with—only Hircine, Hermaeus Mora out of necessity, and now Sanguine—but she’d read about the Prince. What the Dunmer said made sense. And if it was true there had once been a shrine in Vaermina’s name here, it wasn’t entirely out of the box. “So what’s your plan?”   
“Nightcaller Temple,” he replied. Odd. Just a moment ago he hadn’t been certain if there was an old shrine here, but now he was calling it by name? “I need to return to Nightcaller Temple. I’m sure that is the source of this problem.”   
  
The priest eyed her, drawing himself up a little, and then let his gaze travel across the inn to Avulstein and the others. She guessed the question on his lips before he even asked.   
“You’ve proved yourself quite clever, serah. And a mage, I see,” he gestured to the staff across her back. “Perhaps you would...be willing to assist me?” He looked at her again. “I don’t have much to pay, but if we succeed-”   
“I’ll stop you right there, because I’m not a mercenary,” she smiled and slid off the stool. “My...friends and I are on an expedition, but let me talk to them.”   
He nodded. “Please, take your time, serah. The Daedric Princes are not to be trifled with lightly.”

She knew that to be true. Hircine had scared her out of her skin more than once, though Hermaeus Mora hadn’t made an appearance since he helped her get the Elder Scroll to defeat Alduin. And Sanguine, well, he seemed to be something of an anomaly amongst the Princes, but she couldn’t be certain. Circling the fire, Tharya felt all eyes in the group turn to her.   
“Are you done chit-chatting,  _ Dragonborn? _ ” Elgard rolled her eyes as she spoke.    
“That priest needs our help,” she said firmly, and Veln was the first to scoff, Roggi coming soon after. Avulstein merely shook his head. “He can fix the problem with the nightmares, but-”   
“But that problem is not  _ our _ problem,” Avulstein cut in. She tried not to be surprised. Tharya had thought he, out of all of them, would be the most sympathetic. “We need to leave Dawnstar.”   
“And we will,” she said, drawing closer. “But that priest needs some protection. He thinks there’s a Daedric Prince at work.”   
Elgard pounded a fist on the table. “All the more reason to keep our noses clean. No good will come of consorting with Daedra, Dragonborn,” she sniffed. “I don’t plan on throwing my life away like that.” Murmurs of agreement rose.   
  
Could they really be so callous?   
  
“But Dawnstar is just going to get worse,” she said, urgency rising in her throat. “What if we get the nightmares too, even after we leave?”   
Veln sighed, “You heard the elf. Travelers won’t get them. Come off your high horse, Dragonborn,” he grimaced at her. “You did your job with Alduin. You don’t have to play hero anymore.”   
  
One by one they turned back to the table, Avulstein last. And he hadn’t even spoken up. Hadn’t even said a word in her defense—no, that was ridiculous. Why should she expect any of them to? They hadn’t liked her the moment they left Whiterun. She wasn’t  _ Nord _ enough. What was the Dragonborn supposed to do after killing Alduin, retire to a mead hall at the ripe old age of twenty-six? Maybe she was supposed to die in Sovngarde. Maybe she missed that memo.   
  
Thoughtlessly Tharya brushed by Avulstein and lifted her pack off the ground, and stalked back towards the priest as she shouldered it, removing her staff from its loop.   
“Dragonborn-” the Grey-Mane reached out for her arm as she passed, “Tharya. Please.” With a glance to the others he stepped away from the table, squeezing her wrist and lowering his voice. “Please. You have the greatest power on Nirn. This mission is lost without you—but we can’t waste any more time.” She exhaled heavily through her nostrils before wiggling her arm away from him. 

“I’m disappointed you think a Daedric Prince hurting people is a  _ waste of time. _ ”   
“You heard the elf, he said travelers-”   
“The  _ priest _ ,” she corrected. “Stop calling him  _ the elf. _ He’s a priest.” She narrowed her eyes on Veln before turning away.

  
“I knew your face was familiar to me,” the Dunmer smiled at her, and then bowed. “Dragonborn. I would be honored to have your help in this. With your power, I’m sure we can succeed and free Dawnstar of this Daedric plague.”   
“My pleasure,” she said through a forced smile.  _ I wish people would stop talking about ‘my power.’  _ “Where is this Nightcaller Temple? We should go while it’s still early.”   
“Of course, Dragonborn. It isn’t far. My name is Erandur,” he added quickly, and she extended her hand for him to shake.   
“Nice to meet you, Erandur. I’m Tharya.”

* * *

**_QUEST STARTED:_ ** **_WAKING NIGHTMARE_ **

* * *

Like Solitude, the city of Dawnstar was built up around a natural port, a dip in the jagged and reaching northern coastline of the province. Bordered by the edge of a mountain range on one side, and enclosed by a semi-circle wall on all others, it was just a little smaller than Whiterun, and split naturally into two areas: the port and docks, called the Sea District, and the rest of the city, called the Mountain District. Just outside the walls, along with a collection of houses and a stable, was a mead hall that housed the Pale’s branch of the Companions—there was one in every Hold, with the exception of Markarth. The Windpeak Inn, where she and Erandur left from that morning, was just one of three inns populating the city. 

“Nightcaller Temple is only a short walk from the city, Dragonborn,” Erandur said as they stepped outside on the Windpeak’s porch. Summers were never warm enough to go without extra layers this far north, so she unshouldered her pack and dug out her ruana, pulled it on, and slung the bag over her back again.    
“Is there no one else who can help you with this?” She asked as they stepped down to the street and swiveled towards the main gate leading into and out of the city. “Not that I mind helping, I don’t,” Tharya clarified when Erandur gave her a concerned look. “But a court mage, or someone? Shouldn’t the Jarl be concerned about this?” The Dunmer only sighed.   
“Jarls should often be concerned about things they see no need to be concerned about,” he said in reply. “Now more than ever with the war, everyone’s attention is diverted, trying to see which way the tree will fall. The Imperials have already won, if you ask me,” he lowered his voice to speak those words. “But that isn’t a popular opinion in The Pale.” She nodded.   
“More popular in West Skyrim, believe me.”   
“You are from the West, then?”   
“Whiterun,” Tharya noted the guards eyeing them both as they passed under the stone wall, heavy wooden gates swung open. Erandur looked uneasy.   
“Jarl Skald has been closing the gates every night, from sundown to sunup. I’m not sure what he anticipates happening, but it’s got people on edge.”   
She snorted. “Probably an Imperial attack. Skald has always been a bit of a paranoid old geezer.”

Laughing, Erandur gestured to the stables and said there was a path that would lead up the mountain to Nightcaller Temple.   
  
The climb was short but steep; by the time they reached the summit—which wasn’t much of a summit at all, merely a plateau of firm ground nestled between foothills—she was sweating under her ruana. Erandur huffed and stretched on his toes when finally the ground under their feet turned level, and Tharya collapsed on the nearest rock to find her waterskin. The temple itself was built more like a small fort, with a square outer wall and a tower rising from each of the front corners, a third tower centered on the back wall. It probably had been a fort at some point. There were arrow slits along some walls and battlements along the top, some broken or worn.    
“This the place?” She asked, extending the skin to Erandur. He took it and drank deeply with a relieved sigh before handing it back.

“Yes, Dragonborn. Just as I remember it,” he murmured, examining the old fort as if he was returning home after a long journey. Tharya got to her feet as he began to walk towards it and fell into step beside him. “Before we enter, I must warn you about the dangers within.” Again, he seemed so confident, so knowledgeable about this place.  _ Just as I remember it _ . It made her skin itch, knowing he wasn’t telling her something, but...he didn’t  _ feel _ malicious. Either he was an expert at masking his magical aura or truly didn’t wish her harm. “Many years ago, Nightcaller Temple was raided by an Orc war party, seeking revenge against Vaermina. They were being plagued with nightmares just as the people of Dawnstar are.”   
“But?”   
“But...the priests could not defeat the Orcs. Knowing this, they released something inside the temple called “The Miasma”, which put everyone, Orcs and priests, into a deep slumber. From which they have not woken, even to this day.”   
She nodded in understanding. “So what’s the problem?”   
  
“The problem is, when this place is unsealed, all those inside will wake up,” a voice behind them said. “Orcs and priests alike.”   
Together she and Erandur spun away from the door, Tharya shifting her staff into her hands and a small ball of lighting occupying her palm.   
“I knew we were being followed,” the Dunmer grit out, ice coating his fingers.   
“Then you should’ve said something,” she said. Their newcomer was a man, Breton by the looks of it, and just about her height. His hair was the kind of auburn a leaf turns before it falls to the autumn ground, with scruff on his jaw to match it. And his armor... “Vigilant of Stendarr.” Tharya nodded to the man’s robe, similar to mage robes, hanging diagonally across a steel breastplate and accompanying pauldrons. Embroidered there in a perfect circle of silver thread was the symbol of Stendarr, a cup lying on its side and wine pouring out. That didn’t ease her nerves the slightest.   
“Yes. My name is Celann,” he nodded staunchly. “I noticed you two speaking in the inn after those civilians came in. You live in Dawnstar, priest of Mara, but you, Dragonborn—what are you doing here? And the others who came with you?”

Tharya grit her teeth before replying, “We’re on an expedition to the northern coastline of Haafingar. Our business is our own.” The Vigilant nodded again before letting his hand off his sword, and then climbed the steps up to them with a sigh.   
“Truthfully, I have no idea what’s going on in Dawnstar, but I know it’s Daedric,” he said. “Thank you for getting me this far, but you can return to the city now. It isn’t safe.”   
  
She and Erandur glanced at each other.   
“Sorry, but that’s bullshit. You can’t just send us packing,” Tharya gripped her staff. “We’re here to help Dawnstar  _ now _ . If the Vigilant of Stendarr thought it was a Daedra problem, why aren’t you swarming the city by now?” Celann glanced at her uneasily before putting his hands up in a placating gesture.    
“You’re right. It’s just that Keeper Carcette would have my head if I got civilians killed,” the Breton chuckled meekly. “The Vigilant  _ didn’t _ think it was Daedric at first, that’s why they didn’t intervene sooner. I apologize,” he bowed slightly towards Erandur, “but no one in the Hall wanted to listen to me.”    
“You may accompany us if you wish, serah,” the Dunmer sounded a little exasperated. “But we must act quickly. Once we get inside, all will become clear.”   
  
Erandur led them into the temple with Tharya following close behind, the soul gem affixed to the top of her staff glowing softly to give off a little light. Celann brought up the rear with his sword in hand and a spell in the other. The doorway led them down a small hallway and then into a larger chamber with wooden pews tossed every which way, some broken. Wrent iron candelabras littered the floor. There was a single-step dais and a podium overturned on the other end of the room. The three of them stepped carefully through the debris and towards the podium; behind it was a huge stone obelisk, carved intricately but worn with age.   
“What’s that?” Tharya asked quietly, gesturing with her staff to the obelisk. It...vaguely resembled a body, a woman, but her legs were replaced with...a snake’s body.   
“Just a moment,” Erandur sighed heavily, “I’ll get this open.” Magic flickered into his palms and he aimed two bolts of it for the obelisk which, in return, gave up its corporeal form to become a thin, purple barrier. Beyond it she saw another hallway, dim though it was, that led further into the temple. How had he known to do that? And that spell—she hadn’t recognized it. Without thinking her eyes found Celann, making a valiant effort to conceal the shock on his face. Erandur, if that was even his real name, was the first to step through the barrier and beckon them on.   
  
Past the barrier her nose was assaulted with something  _ thick _ , something that smelled heavy and unclean. It made bile rise in her throat, stomach churning to empty itself, but she held it down.   
“Are you alright?” Celann asked quietly, reaching for her shoulder. Tharya coughed until her throat felt raw, pinching her nose for a moment to quell the painful tingling.   
“Yeah,” she groaned, pressing one hand tenderly against her stomach. “Is that...the Miasma thing?” She looked warily at the thin purple fog hanging around their knees. It  _ reeked _ of Daedric taint. Erandur’s response was lost in another coughing fit before she fumbled for her waterskin and drank to soothe her throat.   
“Yes. If we hurry, it should not affect us,” the Dunmer repeated, “it is strongest when it is released, enough to set anyone asleep. Over time it wanes, but those who were initially affected remain in slumber.”   
“And how do you know this?” Celann demanded. Erandur nearly jumped.   
“Please, serah. I will answer all your questions once we have cleansed this place,” he begged, “until then I only ask for your trust.” The Vigilant didn’t look any less suspicious.   
“You will have it, priest,” he muttered reluctantly, and let Erandur lead them onwards.   
  
One of the walls in the circular hallway they entered had been replaced entirely with criss-crossing iron bars, acting as a window into the center of the tower and what lay below.   
“This is the source of all the nightmares,” Erandur said in a low voice, drawing close to the bars but not too close. Warily he peered down, with Tharya and Celann following suit. “Behold the Skull of Corruption,” the Dunmer said, “the source of Dawnstar’s current woes.” It was difficult to see from this height what the Skull looked like, or if it was a Skull at all, but there was a malicious red barrier around it that radiated heat and energy even from this far away. “Don’t stare too long. We must reach the inner sanctum and destroy it, quickly.”   
“Right,” Celann murmured, but his face was white as a sheet.   
  


The Miasma grew thicker the further in they went, down hallways crowded by dust and cobwebs, through small chambers that were almost too dark for her staff to light. When they came upon their first Orc, Celann nearly stabbed him on sight.   
“Wait!” Tharya hissed, grabbing his arm. A dense moment of silence passed, and the Orc snored throatily again. Erandur didn’t let them dally; he stepped easily around the Orcs, and picked up his pace when they started seeing priests of Vaermina scattered about as well, as if they would come awake at any moment and seize him. Dense and heavy the Miasma grew, until all three of them were wading slowly through its murky depths, like swamp sludge sticking to theirs boots, so dark she couldn’t see her feet when she looked down and used her staff to pull her through the mist like an oar guides a boat. Erandur led them carefully down a wide staircase, and again they passed a barred section of wall that opened into the center of the tower. A blast of hot air hit her as she went by, and the Skull of Corruption seemed to hum in its place.

_ Dragonborn... _

“Dammit!” 

_ Dragonborn... _

“The priests must have activated this barrier when they released the Miasma.”   
“Looks difficult to breach.”   
  
_ Dragonborn...come...closer... _   
  
“Impossible, actually. I—Dragonborn!” Erandur’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts. The bars...the bars? She had been so close to them, touching them. The heat of the Skull was making sweat bead on her forehead. The Skull- “Dragonborn, you must come away!” Someone pulled her back from the bars but she stumbled over the Orc lying in the center of the hall, slamming into Celann and sending them both tumbling. “Forgive me for shoving you, Dragonborn,” Erandur’s face was hovering over her immediately, and arms were helping her up, returning her staff to her hands. “Please, don’t get too close to the Skull. Don’t stare.” He helped Celann quickly to his feet. “I fear every moment we are in here Vaermina will try to control us. Let us continue.” Dazed, Tharya nodded, leaning on her staff for a moment. She didn’t even remember...had she been staring at the Skull? She didn’t remember much before backing into Celann and falling. Without another word Erandur beckoned them on, she and Celann sharing a muddled look as the priest scurried away.

He led them back up the hallway they had just come in through, this time veering off through an ajar door.   
“I believe there is a way to bypass that barrier, but first we must check the library and confirm it can still be done.” More questions nagged at the back of her head but Tharya kept them to herself; the Vigilant’s face was written with suspicion, and his sword was hovering in his hand out of its scabbard now, despite the lack of enemies. She couldn’t blame him.

They crossed through a small room where Orcs and priests alike lay sleeping on the floor, dancing delicately between their bodies so as not to wake them. Weren’t they going to wake up anyway?   
“Why don’t we just kill them now?” Tharya asked aloud. Celann jumped as a Dunmer by his boots stirred.   
“Shh!”   
“You have a point,” Erandur said morosely, “it would certainly make our job easier.”   
“You’re just going to slit their throats?” The Breton demanded quietly. “While they sleep?”   
Tharya shrugged. “Chances are they’ll be hostile when they wake up.”   
“But you don’t know that.” Celann looked between them. “Besides, we don’t have time.”   
Erandur shook his head before replying, “Perhaps you are right. But it will make reaching the inner sanctum all the more difficult if they wake up hostile.” Tharya rolled her eyes before reaching over her shoulder for her sword, rubbing the hilt between her palms. Even if it didn’t get much use, driving it into someone’s heart couldn’t be too difficult.   
  
Some of the Orcs were wearing steel armor, next to impossible to pierce with a mere blade, so one by one she traveled between the priests of Vaermina first; the sword slipped easily through the fabric of their purple robes. Blood pulsed and gushed from each wound, staining their clothes, but not one of them made a sound. Erandur turned away before she even began, but Celann watched in mild disgust.   
“I had no idea you were so macabre, Dragonborn,” he said as she killed an Orc. That was it; just killed. It was a killing, nothing more, and certainly nothing less. The Orc jerked and grunted, but fell silent.   
“I’ve been to Sovngarde and Oblivion,” Tharya replied flatly, “whatever afterlife these guys want, it’s there.” The Vigilant huffed before turning away while she wiped her blade clean. “Now we won’t have to deal with as many crazy priests and bloodthirsty Orcs on our way out.” Erandur glanced at her and she gestured for him to lead the way, sliding her sword back into its sheath.    
  
Nightcaller Temple was nothing if not a maze of hallways, but at long last Erandur brought them through the tower, more rooms, more halls, and down a long set of stone stairs. The air was chilly here, and the rooms smelled like cold earth; the telltale scent of being below ground. Celann gave a low whistle as they descended into a wide room of bookshelves, maybe five rows of six—three facing right and three facing left, their backs to one another.    
“Please, follow me,” Erandur beckoned for them to catch up. As Tharya came to the bottom of the stairs the smell of old paper and worn binding assaulted her nose, forcing a loud sniff followed by a sneeze that echoed around the chamber before returning to them in a distorted moan.   
“Oh. Don’t like that,” she muttered, glancing around. There was nothing in here but stone and books, nothing in here that could’ve made such a horrid sound.    
  
While Erandur wandered in and out of rows of shelves, Celann trailed behind him, examining a couple titles here and there.   
“Would you mind if I took some of these for the Vigilants?” He asked finally, thumbing through a rather large volume called  _ Varieties of Daedra _ . “These are early editions, and some of these I’ve never even seen before.”   
“You may, but I would warn you, they’ve been sitting in the temple with both the Miasma and Vaermina. Whatever you take, I don’t know the risks.” The Breton seemed to consider this for a moment, a grimace forming on his lips, before stepping away.    
“Looks like the Orcs didn’t make it down here,” Tharya commented as Erandur turned the corner to mosey down another aisle. The Dunmer sighed softly.   
“Some did. The books farther that way have been burned, trampled, or cut up,” he pointed to the right side of the room. Tharya remembered seeing a couple of the shelves toppled or broken. “But they did not come this way. They went through that doorway.” The doorway in question was a naked arch that led further into the underground level, with splinters and large pieces of wood—what was once the door—lying in front of it.   
  
Tharya veered off to examine the threshold, glancing at the other two before inhaling deeply. The wood was old, dry. She crouched to touch it, thinking maybe it would hold some memory, some residual feeling of what had happened in this place, and perhaps give her an idea as to how long ago the temple had been raided. That could offer a clue as to whether her suspicions of Erandur were true or not. But how long did Dunmer live? Longer than Nords, for sure. The Dragonborn outstretched her fingers to lay them on the wood, focusing her magicka on the material below her touch. This wood was probably as old as her, if not older. The memory of it being knocked down was faded, but still there. As Erandur said, the Orcs had been the one to break it, barreling through to get deeper into the temple. For what? It didn’t matter. The wood had absorbed their anger, their adrenaline as they rammed into it once, twice, three, four times before it gave way. It groaned morosely as it remembered and she opened her eyes, tendrils of pain dancing up her arm. Footsteps approached from behind.

“Sylvan magic,” Celann murmured in admiration. “Where did you learn that?” Tharya only shrugged.  
“I dunno. I’ve always been able to do it,” she replied, “and my mother taught me some.”  
“Fascinating,” the Vigilant drew closer. “There are so few practicing sylvans.”  
She snorted. “I don’t really consider myself a...a what? A _sylvan_. I’m just a mage, doing magey things. What does _sylvan_ mean anyway?” Celann gave her a confused look before realizing she was serious.  
“Pertaining to the woods, or the forest. Nature,” he replied. “As a noun it means _one who frequents_ _the woods_. But I suppose it was adopted into a title when practitioners of sylvan magic came around.” He extended one hand to her that she took to stand, brushing her knees off. “Supposedly sylvans can listen to things. The ground, rocks, trees...natural materials. Can you?” Another shrug.  
“I suppose-”  
“Pardon, serahs, but I have found the book we are looking for,” Erandur poked his head around the corner of a bookcase, beckoning them over.  
  
Whereas shelves on the opposite side of the room had been knocked over completely, the volumes here were relatively untouched. Dusty and strung up with cobwebs, but intact. In his arms Erandur was holding a massive light blue tome, a design in white on the cover. Peering at it, Tharya realized it was similar to that obelisk in the front hall—Vaermina.   
“What is that?” Celann asked, looking over Erandur’s shoulder.  
“It is called _The Dreamstride_ ,” the Dunmer replied. “A book of alchemical recipes and solutions.”

Tharya whistled lowly. “It’s huge.”   
“Yes...it may take some time for me to find what we’re looking for. If it’s even in here.” She groaned quietly, examining the table of contents as Erandur ran a grey finger down the list of titles and subsections. There were four pages to the table of contents, and most chapters looked to have at least two or three subtitles below them. That would take them  _ forever _ . “Page three hundred twenty-seven...perhaps that will be a good place to start.”   
“ _ Perhaps? _ ” Celann crowed.   
“Yes, serah. I’m terribly sorry,” Erandur turned to look at them, closing the Dreamstride and hefting it under his arm. “But with luck, we can stop the nightmares before Dawnstar goes to bed tonight.”   
  
Tharya and Celann shared a look before she sighed heavily.   
“I hope you brought food, Vigilant. I’m starving.”

  
  


Erandur warned them against sleeping, but as the day dragged on Tharya felt her eyelids grow heavier and heavier. Once or twice she began to doze only to have Celann kick her awake. And each time she would get a stern lecture from the priest of Mara sitting across the room hunched over his book.   
  
“If Dawnstar is being affected so, I very much doubt you would want to fall asleep  _ here _ , Dragonborn. And if you do, I can’t promise you’ll ever wake up.”   
  
Lovely.

“That doesn’t sound too horrible,” she’d mutter every time, and Erandur would snort.   
“It will be horrible when you are left to wander Oblivion as a nameless, brainless slave to Vaermina.” And that was the end of that until she nodded off again and Celann kicked her again. She didn’t know how many hours they spent there in the basement, only that it grew colder as time passed. Hunger curled in her gut but she ignored it, huddled into her ruana and held her staff close. After a while Celann finally sat, sinking down into the space beside her. They both watched Erandur as he flipped through pages, Tharya trying to discreetly scoot closer to the Vigilant for warmth. Celann pulled his knees up after a while and laid his arms across them.   
  
“So, what is it like?” He asked, looking over at her. Tharya raised an eyebrow.   
“What is what like? Being unable to generate any body heat?” The Breton threw his head back to laugh, knocking his skull against the wall. “Ooh, I heard that one.” He grimaced but raised an eyebrow, rubbing his head.   
“Sound hollow?” He teased.    
“A little bit,” she snickered. “What were you asking about?”   
“Being Dragonborn,” came the clarification after a moment. “To be honest, everyone knows who you are—or at least that there  _ is _ a Dragonborn kicking around. But what did you do?”   
Tharya squinted at him. “Saved the world?”   
“Oh, no!” Celann put his hands up to placate her. “I didn’t mean it disrespectfully. I guess I meant... _ how _ did you do what you had to do?” 

She nodded before replying, “Well...you know I had to go fight Alduin, right?” He nodded. “As it turned out, the Ancient Nords didn’t exactly  _ defeat _ Alduin. They used something called an Elder Scroll to throw him forward in time to make him someone else’s problem. You don’t look very shocked about this,” she laughed, surveying his features. Indeed, he seemed to be absorbing the information rather easily.   
“I’m a Vigilant of Stendarr,” he grinned, “I know about Elder Scrolls. Not a lot, but I know they’re...finicky. So, Alduin gets flung outside of time, and reappears however many thousands of years later. How do you defeat him?”   
“The kicker was that he actually made himself at home in Sovngarde, of all places,” she went on, watching his eyes widen at that, “so I had to use an ancient portal in an abandoned ruin in the Velothi Mountains to travel to Sovngarde and then kick his ass.”   
“That’s amazing,” Celann murmured. “And when did you get back from Sovngarde? How was there not a parade? A national holiday?” Her smile faded. Yes, why wasn’t there something to commemorate the saving of the world?   
  
_ Don’t be that way, _ she lectured herself.  _ Balgruuf gave you a banquet. _ A banquet her best friend left her at.  _ Well, you didn’t have to go off and become a drunk bandit, now did you? _ Celann peered at her.   
“Dragonborn?” Before she could answer Erandur cried out, making them both jump. “What?” The Vigilant hopped to his feet. Tharya was slower, grabbing her staff and using it to haul herself up.   
“Mara be praised! There’s a way past the barrier,” the priest exclaimed, scuttling towards them to show a page. Before either of them could even look at it he trotted away again. “It says here we’ll need a potion...The Torpor.”   
Celann raised an eyebrow. “A potion? What for?” They followed Erandur as he wove through bookshelves and past the broken down door.    
“The Torpor grants priests of Vaermina an ability called  _ the Dreamstride. _ ”   
“I thought that was the name of the book,” Tharya muttered.   
“The Dreamstride ability would allow priests to travel distances in the real world via dreams and memories,” Erandur ignored her as he went on. “It’s a quite amazing ability. Alchemy and celestial energy distilled into a single ingestible liquid. Unfortunately...” the Dunmer paused and straightened out, turning to look at both of them. “As a sworn and devoted priest of Mara, the Dreamstride won’t work for me. It may even harm me. The Torpor is only compatible with Priests of Vaermina or the unaffiliated.”   
  
Celann took a step back, shaking his head as he spoke, “Then I’m out as well, Stendarr as my witness.” Tharya swallowed thickly as both men looked to her.  _ Unaffiliated _ . What about Hircine...? Her beast blood wouldn’t allow her to take the Torpor, right? Was she affiliated with Akatosh because of her dragonblood? Or Kynareth? Maybe not, but even if she wasn’t, there was Hircine. And—would Hermaeus Mora count? He had given her something, a book, what was it called? She had met him when looking for the Elder Scroll.    
“Dragonborn?” Erandur sounded hopeful. Divines, Celann was a  _ Vigilant of Stendarr. _ If he found out she was a werewolf, he wouldn’t hesitate before killing her. And they didn’t know what the Torpor would do to the affiliated. Would it kill her? Make her a nameless, brainless slave to Vaermina like Erandur had spoken of earlier?    
“Um...yeah,” Tharya stuttered, gripping her staff tightly. How could she tell them? Erandur may not care but...her eyes flicked to Celann, regarding her curiously with his arms crossed.   
“Unless you are tied to another Prince,” the Dunmer said slowly. The other man’s back straightened at the words.   
“Are you?” The Vigilant asked lowly.   
“Akatosh,” she blurted suddenly.  _ Shit. _ “No, not a Prince. I was just thinking...if I’m affiliated with Akatosh, would that be bad?”   
Erandur blinked. “Akatosh?”   
Tharya nodded, trying to seem sure of herself, “Yeah. Akatosh. All Dragonborn are associated with him. We’re his...creations?” Both of her companions nodded in understanding. “Either way, I’ll take it. I’m the Dragonborn, it’s my job to do the dangerous stuff.”  _ But Hircine. _ To her dismay, neither man disputed that.   
  
“There is a laboratory east of here,” Erandur motioned to the broken down door. “If we can’t find a sample of the Torpor, then the Dreamstride has the recipe to make it from raw ingredients.” Tharya sighed.   
“On to the laboratory, then. Can’t wait to get sucked into a vicious dream world controlled by a Daedric Prince from which I may or may not wake up,” she muttered. Celann gave her a hearty pat on the back.   
“Chin up, Dragonborn! I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”   
  
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, okay.”


	14. X. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wa wa wee wa, friends...we made it! welcome to the end of part 1! thank you all for reading and leaving your comments, it means so much to me. the beginning of part 2 will be out next week!

“Must you?” Celann grimaced as she wrenched her sword from the gut of a Vaermina follower, not waiting to see the blood ooze from the woman’s chest before cleaning the blade off with a corner of her purple robes.  
“Either they wake up and kill us or we kill them,” she frowned at the Vigilant. “You don’t have to like it.” Regardless he fell into step beside her as they crossed the room towards where Erandur hunched in front of a shelf. The Miasma was thinner down here, less restrictive of their movements, but that it had reached this far at all was impressive. And they were beginning to feel its effects, no matter how muted Erandur claimed they were. Celann yawned for the third time since entering the laboratory, and Tharya felt pure exhaustion tug at her bones. She’d already been tired coming into this; coming out of it, she’d sleep like a log.   
  
“The party you came to Dawnstar with, Dragonborn,” Celann sat with a sigh on an overturned bookshelf. “Are they waiting for you?” Tharya shrugged.   
“Yeah, I think so.”   
“You think?”

“I don’t know if the others care, but I think Avulstein values me enough,” she shrugged again. Did he? It was hard to tell. Maybe she was just grasping at straws. Most likely. Who valued her nowadays except maybe the Greybeards?

Celann made a face. “You _think_ he _values_ you? Just _values?_ ” She blinked. “Like an antique or something? I got the impression you were friends.” Tharya couldn’t help the laugh that flew from her lips. _Friends._ That was a good one. Her only friend beside Aldis had been Kharjo, and even now Aldis probably didn’t want much to do with her after her little... _mistake_ . Her response was drowned out by Erandur sneezing loudly. Before they could even say _bless you_ the Dunmer was hurrying over to them, clutching an elegant dark glass bottle in one hand.   
  
“The Torpor,” he said breathlessly. The neck of the bottle was long and slender, with the bottom rounding outwards, almost like a gumdrop if they were any more fancy. _Mm. Food._ “Mara be praised the bottle is intact. The laboratory was obviously ransacked by the Orcs,” his red eyes peered about the room, the clutter, the broken glass and shredded books on the floor, the overturned alchemy table and smashed enchanter. Without ceremony he thrust the bottle towards Tharya. “I’ve taken us this far, but the rest is up to you, Dragonborn. Down the hatch.” She stared at him.   
  
“Are you kidding?”   
Celann raised an eyebrow from where he sat. “Did we not agree you would be the one to drink?”   
“Yeah, but...” _Hircine._ Just holding the Torpor made her beast blood stir. That couldn’t be a good sign, could it?   
“But?” Erandur prompted impatiently. “I doubt your connection to Akatosh would interfere with the Torpor nor the effects of the Dreamstride, Dragonborn. Please. Dawnstar is waiting and daylight outside is fading.” Daylight. Gods, she hardly even knew what time it was. Being stuck in the temple for hours on top of the drowsiness induced by the Miasma wasn’t working wonders for her internal clock. _But Hircine. Hell, maybe even Sanguine._ It wasn’t Akatosh she was worried about.   
“Unless you _are_ connected to a Daedra, Dragonborn.” Celann’s voice was so accusing she almost wanted to cry.   
“No, duh. I’m the Dragonborn,” she snipped back. “No Daedra for me.”   
“Then please, drink.” Erandur even uncorked the bottle for her.   
Tharya cleared her throat before replying, “Um, do you have a place I could sit or something?” Erandur muttered to himself and Celann stood from his bookcase, gesturing to it before shrugging off his cloak.   
  
“Sit here,” the Vigilant said, bundling his cloak up in his arms and then placing it on the flat surface. “Drink the Torpor, and we’ll lay you down.” On shaky legs she sat and then aligned herself on the bookcase, staring up at Erandur and Celann’s face. Divines, is this what going under for a surgery felt like? It was mildly terrifying. _Hircine._ Divines, she was probably going to die, and all because she couldn’t find the backbone to stick up for herself.   
“Cheers,” the Nord croaked hoarsely, and then drank the whole bottle.

For a moment the world was clear and then it was thrown violently off kilter, the room swaying, turning, hazy and dark. She heard Erandur say something and then someone holding her shoulders as her spine lost strength, slowly letting her head down onto Celann’s cloak. The fabric...shocked her. The ceiling made a slow revolution, a wrought iron chandelier hanging from above spinning the opposite direction. Someone grabbed her ankles and hefted her legs onto the bookcase, but she jerked away from the touch. _Don’t...don’t touch me._ Men didn’t touch her. Men didn’t...   
  
Darkness seeped into the corners of her version, and then in one inky explosion took her sight and consciousness from her.

* * *

**Turdas, 28th of Frostfall, 4E 207**   
  
Miraak had been still the entire time she spoke, wearing what she affectionately called his Am I Constipated or Just Thinking Really Hard Face. With his elbows perched on the table, his fingers steepled and chin balanced precariously on the tips. There was a crease in his brow and his eyes were swirling with deep thought. She waited—he was going to say something, she knew it. She always did. But it wasn’t what she expected.   
“What do you mean by that?” He asked finally. “ _Men didn’t touch me._ ” Tharya grimaced as her own words were repeated back to her.   
“Nothing,” she gave a little shrug, hoping he would drop it.   
“Has someone hurt you?”   
“Oh, Divines, no,” the Nord waved one hand dismissively. “I just...you’re going to say I’m wrong, but just...be quiet.” He snorted softly. “I’m not the prettiest. I don’t have a nice body or huge boobs. I swear my boobs were bigger before the war but...well, we’ll get to that later. I’m just _me._ Not very attractive,” she watched his lip curl into a grimace, “I know, I know, but shush. I’m not anyone’s first choice-”   
“You are mine.”   
“- _besides you_ , and only because I forced you to spend weeks following me around. Also saved your life a few times.”

The Thinking Face shifted to the Quietly Contemplating Face as he sat back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest and staring at her.  
“I’ve never been the type who just fawned over boys and dreamt of having babies. There isn't anything wrong with that but I always felt like...it was the norm, the expectation,” Tharya added quietly. “And like I said, I’m not pretty. Men don’t want girls who aren’t pretty, don’t want babies, and could probably hunt a zillion times better than them.”   
“That is not a number.”   
“A bajillion,” she corrected, watching a smile tug at his mouth. Miraak traced a finger along his bottom lip before tapping it twice. “So yeah. I guess that’s why Celann grabbing me is something I remember a lot. Because no one touched me a lot, ever. Even if it was just, like, by the ankles.” She watched him mouth the words to himself. _Men didn’t touch me._ “It’s really stupid.”   
Miraak frowned. “No, it is not. You found it too troublesome to be a woman of society, so you became a woman of your own making. I will admit many of my sex, even in my time, would act the same as your kinsmen have. But as an expert man myself, I can say we men are not always the brightest.” With an old person sigh and a young child’s grin he sat forward again and put both hands palm-up on the table. “But as you can see, I am a worldly and learned individual, and I know a hidden beauty when I see one.”   
  
Tharya rolled her eyes and scoffed as he kissed her hands, but couldn’t fight the flush that crept up her neck.   
“Yeah, _obviously._ You’re just so cool.”   
“I am,” the Atmoran said smugly. “Thank you for noticing.” She giggled. Miraak clasped her little hands between his, gently rubbing her wrists. “Do not measure your worth based on others’ perceptions of you, my love. Men— _people_ have been judging other people by face value for millennia, and it will never change. But if you are aware of your worth, then it will be all you need. Scars, warpaint, skin...they do not make us any less or more of a person.” She was quiet for a moment before stealing her hands away.   
“What was that you said about scars?” He stared at her before groaning. “No, what was it? _Scars don’t make us any less of a person?_ Mr. I’m So Ugly? Hm?”   
Miraak grimaced. “That is _different._ ” He touched the lines over the bridge of his nose, a deep frown settling over his face. “I would not mind these if they were not remnants of Hermaeus Mora. And if they were not on my face,” he added softly. “Do you know why they are dark like this?” She shook her head. “Because Herma-Mora did not use stitches or magic. He used tiny... _maggots._ Worms, black ones. Miniaturized offspring of his tentacles. And they were alive. Every day I felt them moving in my skin.” The Atmoran closed his eyes tightly. “And every day I would rip them out. It was too much—that is why they scarred. And the worms are why they are dark. I would not hate them so if I did not remember why they are the way they are.”   
  
She watched him drop his forehead into one palm, dragging his fingers slowly over his face as if he could tear the scars off just as he had the...stitches. Situating his chin in the crook between his thumb and forefinger, he shrugged.   
“Your kinsmen also quite enjoy judging me because my skin is brown. Some things will never change. Racism will never change, either.”

Tharya swallowed. “I believe someday it might.”  
“Then you are more optimistic than I.” Miraak peered at her. “I did not mean to scare you, _elskavin._ I suppose...I’ve never told you why my scars are the way they are.” The Last Dragonborn was quiet for a few beats more before she stood, circled the table, and planted herself on his lap.   
  
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re really handsome,” she whispered, hugging him tightly. “And I don’t care what the color of your scars is.” Just to punctuate her point she grabbed his jaw and kissed each past wound; the two over his nose, the one splitting his eyebrow, the one adorning the corner of his mouth, just barely splitting his lips. With a resigned smile, he let her.   
“You should kiss me more often.”   
“I _know_ ,” Tharya groaned, tangling her fingers into his hair. “But, for starters, you’re super tall. I’m also super awkward and I think a little bad at kissing. Or initiating stuff like that.”   
“Nonsense,” Miraak snorted. “If you were bad at kissing do you think I would be asking you to do it more?”   
“True.”   
“And I have robes. Just...pull me down.” 

Tharya laughed against his hair. “Your intellect is truly astonishing sometimes, Mr. Althëasson.”  
He grinned. “I pride myself on it. Now, tell me more about the Dreamstride.”

* * *

**Turdas, 15th of Sun’s Height, 4E 202**

_“The Orcs have breached the inner sanctum, Brother Veren.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _With those words she jolted awake...sort of._ _  
_ _“Ugh...jeez Louise, we’ve been-” she stopped as the world around her slowly came into focus. “-cheesed.” It was like when she had read the Elder Scroll; a circle of clarity directly in front of her, while the edges of her vision faded in a confused, hazy blur. She was surprised to feel that when she spoke, the words didn’t actually leave her lips. Her mouth didn’t move. Her throat didn’t vibrate. She went to raise a hand to her neck and feel—the hand stayed firmly at her side. “What the hell?” She couldn’t move. Her body wasn’t even in her control. How?_

_“We must hold!” There was a Dunmer and a Nord man standing in front of her, the Dunmer on the left the one speaking—shouting, more like it. “We cannot allow them to get their hands on the Skull, no matter the costs.” Their robes were purple. Vaermina robes, probably. Tharya tried to speak again._ _  
_ _“Can they even see me?” But again her own voice was smothered. When she tried to move, her body remained utterly still._

 _“But no more than a handful remain, brother,” the Nord replied. And then, suddenly, her head swung back, twisting around to check over her shoulder. The motion was swift and natural but it felt as if she’d been tossed against a wall. In that one movement her guts churned, the entirety of her vision went into a haze, and did not clear up again._ _  
_ _“Then there is no choice. The Miasma must be released.” At that her head swiveled back. Tossed her against the opposite wall. She almost threw up, but...found that she couldn’t. The Dunmer nodded staunchly. “It is the will of Vaermina.” Her lips moved this time, her throat shook with a throaty voice that was not her own:_ _  
_ _  
_ _“It is the will of Vaermina.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _That voice...why was that familiar?_ _  
_ _  
_ _“Very well. Brother Casimir, you will be the one to release the Miasma. You must activate the barrier before doing so; let nothing stop you.” Casimir. That was her name here? The Nord man shifted._ _  
_ _“Then it’s decided,” he spoke slowly. “Until we meet again, my brothers.” The Dunmer nodded, and her head moved to mirror the action. Her brain felt like it was being twisted and pulled out her ears at the same time._ _  
_ _“Until we meet again.” As her feet began to carry her away—more vicious jostling, like she was nothing but a doll clutched in a running child’s grubby hands—she heard the men speaking again._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Brother Thorek, we must remain here and guard the Skull with our lives if...” Tharya didn’t hear the rest. She broke into a run, dragged along by the body of the man she was in. At least she thought it was a man. His voice had been a little too deep and raspy for a woman’s. She tramped down a long hallway that spit her out into an identical one, and picked up speed as her host darted down the hall. Vaguely the voice of an Orc reached her ears and the sickening squelch of bones and flesh being crushed. Turning into a large doorway, she felt like she was ricocheting off unseen boundaries, being tossed every which way. Her body ached. Her mind swam. Her eyes burned and strained, forming a tight knot of a headache in the front of her skull._ _  
_ _  
_ _Just inside the doorway there was a woman in similar purple robes getting a waraxe removed from her ribcage, and a triumphant, bloodied Orc standing over her. She heard her man gasp for breath and felt_ **_his_ ** _guts churn for a change, but he scurried away quickly. Everywhere the temple seemed to be filled with the sounds of battle. Screaming, crying, the Orcs roaring about revenge. One of the Orcs tried to charge her as she swung into another room, but from behind another Priest of Vaermina jumped onto the behemoth’s back with a dagger penetrating his greenish throat._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Go, Casimir, go—augh!” Her host didn’t stop to look. His legs were already aching—she felt it now, he was rounding in the gut—but he kept on._ **_Go, Casimir, go, bring me to the Miasma,_ ** _she thought to him, though he couldn’t hear it. She could hardly form the words herself, with her head scrambled. A sudden wave of relief washed over her as Casimir sighted a small chamber closed off on two sides by iron gates. In the hallway two priests were ganging up on a wounded Orc, her sword bloody._ _  
_ _  
_ _One of them looked up, looked at Casimir while he hesitated. And then looked to the Miasma chamber, somber recognition dawning on his face._ _  
_ _  
_ _Her host threw his hands out to catch himself against the gate, the iron scraping his palms. At the same time he released a spell through his fingertips that turned the metal an ethereal purple, and quickly Casimir stepped through. Tharya tried to turn her head but it only resulted in a fierce burning blooming in her neck, as if her vertebrae had shattered. And then, with all his might, Casimir gripped the pull chain in the chamber, surrounded by six valves on each side. He yanked it down._ _  
_ _  
_ _There were long beats of silence as the Miasma hissed into open hallways and crowded rooms throughout the temple, exiting unseen valves and vents. One, two, three, she counted. Four. Five. The world seemed to grow slow and lazy. Six. Seven. Then there was an abrupt burst of life; Orcs shouting, priests torn asunder, and then...nothing._ _  
_ _  
_ _Casimir whipped around frantically to watch as his brethren began to succumb to it. The Orcs began to stagger and lose grip on their weapons. Images flashed before her eyes, or Casimir’s eyes, she couldn’t tell: images of the hallway, of the sleepers, of clumsy feet tramping up the stairs, tripping, falling. Of the door to the temple. Of the night sky. The cold embrace of snow, and...the stars above her._

“Dragonborn!”  
  
The voice was so far away. Tharya gazed through the purple barrier in a stupor, looking but not seeing. There were two figures on the other side...two? But everyone was supposed to be asleep...   
  
“Dragonborn, the barrier!” Another voice. This one maybe a little closer. Her legs felt like fire, and then jelly, and then nothing. Did she have legs? Looking down made her head hurt, and she couldn’t lift it again. “The barrier! Disable the barrier!” Slowly Tharya turned. The barrier, right...but what about the Miasma? Shouldn’t everyone be asleep? There was a column of dark magic shooting out from a small pedestal beside the Miasma’s pull chain. Could that be it? Slowly, lazily, her eyes traced it, and it indeed hit the barrier. Must be fueling it then. “Dragonborn, please!” Shouldn’t everyone be asleep? She had...Casimir had...released...   
  


Stumbling, Tharya flung one hand out, less of a choice and more of reflex, really, towards the pedestal. Something came flying off it. Something shiny and large, like a gem. As it toppled to the ground in slowed time the barrier flickered, whined, and then went out completely. Promptly afterwards she tripped over her own foot, and was unconscious before she even met the ground.

Her memory was only a gaping hole after that. She had hazy, fleeting memories of moving down the mountainside without her feet ever touching the ground. She remembered returning to the city just as the guards were preparing to close the gate. She remembered strange looks...blurry faces...she remembered seeing a swaying ship pull out of Dawnstar’s harbor, and she remembered the feel of a fire and being put in a bed. She remembered Celann talking to her, trying to shake her awake, saying...what was he saying?

“Hey, Dragonborn...Dragonborn, your friends are gone...Dragonborn, can you hear me? Your friends left...”

* * *

Miraak was staring off into the distance again, but she knew he was listening. After a beat of silence he spoke up.  
“They left you.”   
“Yeah,” she mumbled, sighing lowly. “I heard Thorald returned to Whiterun once Ulfric was on the throne. But they left.” The Atmoran frowned deeply at that. “Hey, when I told you I don't have friends, I really meant it,” she tried to laugh but he apparently didn’t find it amusing.   
“And Celann?”   
“After the whole ordeal I slept for two days. After _that_ I told him what I recalled, and he said Erandur was doing a deep cleanse of the temple and hoping to make it a place for Mara...” Tharya shrugged gently. “We were on the road together for a couple days. He was going back to the Hall of the Vigilant. We kinda became friends, I guess, but I was still scared to tell him...you know. I never have. But I told him if he ever needed my help again to send a letter to the College, I guess I expected I’d be back there at some point.”

High Hrothgar was quiet. Outside the sun was beginning to set, casting long, vibrant shadows over the mountaintop. The chill would start to seep into the monastery once darkness came, as if it wasn’t already hovering on the edge of uncomfortably cool in here. But with all the new wood she chopped, the Greybeards would have enough to get them through the winter. Slowly Tharya surveyed the kitchen. A lot of her narration seemed to have taken place in here, for some reason. Perhaps it was the warmest room, with large windows letting in the sunlight, residual heat and scents of cooking sticking to the walls and ceiling. Even if it wasn’t, her current position seated on the First Dragonborn’s thighs and leaning comfortably against his chest was more than enough to make it warm.

“Mir—oh,” she was cut off by gentle fingers grasping her chin and turning her head back towards their owner. He stared at her for a moment with that voided, golden stare she was still not entirely used to. She could tell he was thinking, but he didn’t speak. Instead he fit one palm to her cheek and pressed a soft kiss against her lips. And then a second. A third and he adjusted his arms around her, strong hands caressing the small of her back. Hesitantly she draped her arms around his neck—it wasn’t her best moment, to be making out in the Greybeards’ kitchen, but she so rarely took risks it was okay to take a tiny one this once. Right? 

Tharya was just lost enough she didn’t entirely notice the way he coaxed her lips apart (did this man ever breathe?) or the way he tilted his head or the newfound warmth—she wasn’t proud of the sound that escaped her throat, but it was somewhere between an embarrassing whine and a slightly dignified more gasp. Miraak let her pull away and put her hand over her mouth, as he briefly examined the cherry blush spreading from her cheeks.  
“What?” He grasped her hips in both hands and gave her the slightest shake, an amused smolder tugging at his lips. That bastard.   
“Nothing,” she whispered. “I made a weird noise.”   
“I thought it was cute.”   
“That was a really nice kiss,” she let him pry her fingers away, a chortle rumbling from the chambers of his chest. Miraak brushed his fingers along her cheek before leaning towards her ear.   
  
“You make it easy, _elskavin._ You like tongue.”

She could’ve screamed, that absolutely sinfully sexy grin on his absolutely sinfully plush lips was so perfect, and maybe she would’ve if Arngeir hadn’t walked in.  
  
“Dragonborns,” he greeted them both gravely with a hint of minor distaste.   
“Arngeir!” Tharya jumped and Miraak groaned, nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck.   
“Watch where you _rub._ ”   
“Sorry, Arngeir, I didn’t-” she cleared her throat and dug her nails into Miraak’s shoulders, “I didn’t see you come in. Do-do you need, um, help? With dinner, o-or something?”   
The Greybeard turned his back to them. 

“No.” She could feel the Atmoran’s teeth graze her neck. That little shit. While Arngeir was turned away Tharya grabbed Miraak by the hair and hoisted his head up, glaring down at him. He had the stupidest smile; it quickly shifted into a disappointed pout when she slid off him, batting his hands away.  
  
“Dragonborn,” the older man looked back at her and his eyes widened a bit in surprise, glancing between her and Miraak. There was a cup of tea in his hands she hadn’t noticed that had been steeping on the counter. “I came here to tell you one of your friends is waiting outside.”   
“One of...wait, who?” Tharya shared a look with the First Dragonborn, who merely shrugged.   
“If you do not have friends, then I _surely_ do not.”   
“Yeah, true.”   
Arngeir sighed, sipping his drink before replying, “A Khajiit, calling himself Bhijirio. He said you parted in Ivarstead some days ago? Either way, he is waiting in the hall. Ah, Dragonborn,” he took a step forward as Tharya swiveled away, watching warily as Miraak stood to his full height and crossed his arms. “May I ask, how long do you plan to stay with us?”   
Tharya shrugged, “Well, I hadn’t really thought of it. Probably not much longer. Why?”   
“We are of course honored to house you any time, Dragonborn,” Arngeir replied with a gentle bow of his head. “But...our pantry is carefully rationed each time we receive packages from the good people in Ivarstead-” abruptly Miraak barked out a laugh.   
“You think you’ll starve, old man?” He crowed, shaking his head. “Doesn’t your _Way of the Voice_ have something for that?” Tharya smiled tightly as the Atmoran sauntered away, chuckling under his breath.   
“Sorry, Arngeir,” she replied, “we won’t be here much longer. We have some food in our packs we’ll dig into.” The Greybeard bowed lightly again before thanking her and turning back to his tea. Tharya trotted after Miraak, reaching out to smack his shoulder.   
  
“Don’t get cocky on me, Mr. Althëasson.” He only grinned and reached for her hand, squeezing it in his own.   
“Only if I get to kiss you again,” he bargained. Her flushed face was answer enough. “What is Bhijirio doing here? I thought he would have left Ivarstead by now.” As they descended the steps into the main hall—more of a main chamber, really, just a square room with a high ceiling—a familiar looking Khajiit turned towards them.   
“What, are you complaining, Gloomy?”   
  
Bhijirio was a broad Cathay-raht Khajiit the color of warm ginger spice with thin black markings, bright green eyes, and small, rounded ears similar to a bear’s. Taller than her but, as most everyone was, shorter than Miraak, he was probably the most normal one between all three of them. He wore his usual glass armor with leather bracers, worn leather boots that had most definitely seen better days, and a thick brown cloak that he had been beating snow off of before they spotted him. The hilt of a greatsword poked out over his shoulder.   
  
“Are you joking? All Miraak does is complain,” Tharya laughed, striding across the stone floor to embrace the Khajiit. He swept her up with a tight squeeze.   
“Hi, Sunshine.” Bhijirio grinned as Miraak approached, rolling his eyes. Runa padded around the corner tentatively before letting out an excited growl, barreling down the stairs and nearly plowing through Tharya’s knees to jump at Bhijirio. “Oooh, hi, Pretty! I missed _you_ the most!” He knelt to vigorously scratch and pet her torso. The Vale sabre cat purred happily and pressed her head into his chest.   
  
“What in Shor’s name are you doing up here, Bhiji?” Tharya asked after a moment. “I thought you were going to Cyrodiil?”   
“Well, I was,” he shrugged. “But then I ended up not wanting to leave Ivarstead, so I climbed back up here to be with you guys.” There was something he was hiding, she could smell it; and he knew she could. His green eyes flickered to Miraak for a moment before they settled on her, a quiet plea behind them. 

_He’s lying._ Even without a sense of smell to rival theirs, the Atmoran was frighteningly perceptive. Tharya put on a smile and didn’t reply to his words that echoed in the back of her mind before dying out. A tense moment passed, filled only with Runa’s happy purring.   
“Well, I’m sorry to put your knees through it, but we’re probably going to leave in a day or two,” Tharya broke the surface finally.   
“No way. The climb up here was brutal enough, Sunshine! My freaking toes...they’re going to fall off,” Bhijirio groaned. 

Miraak broke away with a scoff, waving one hand as he turned away, “We can use magic.”  
“I’d expect no less from you, Gloomy,” the Khajiit snorted, watching him meander away for a moment before turning his attention to Tharya. “I know you’re going to ask me sooner or later, but I only ask it comes later.” Caught off guard for a moment, all she could do was nod.   
“Miraak knows,” she said quietly after a moment. “I’ll tell him not to press. His sense of smell might be shit but he’s freakishly observant.”   
“Freakish, for sure,” Bhijirio grinned, giving Runa one final pat before hoisting his backpack off the floor and over one shoulder. She let out a resounding laugh and a halfhearted decree of _be nice_ before gesturing for him to follow.   
  
“Well, whatever your reason for climbing back up the mountain, welcome to High Hrothgar. You’re just in time to start dinner with us,” she reached down to ruffle Runa’s fur as the sabre cat plodded along beside her legs. “You missed most of the storytelling, though.” He whistled lowly.

“Storytelling? My favorite.” Tharya glanced at him over her shoulder with a curious look in her clear eyes and a faint smile on her face.  
  
“I wouldn’t worry. There’s more to come.”

  
  


_So goodbye yellow brick road_

_Where the dogs of society howl_

_You can't plant me in your penthouse_

_I'm going back to my plough_

_Back to the howling old owl in the woods_

_Hunting the horny back toad_

_Oh, I've finally decided my future lies_

_Beyond the yellow brick road_

**_TO BE CONTINUED..._ **


	15. XI. Hymn of the Cherubim (Act 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all have no idea how long i've been waiting to write miraak narrating! i hope you enjoy it!!! (i was too lazy to to a dramatis personae yet but that will come out eventually)

**_Maw unleashing razor snow,_ **

**_Of dragons from the blue brought down,_ **

**_Births the walking winter's woe,_ **

**_The High King in his Jagged Crown._ **

* * *

BEGINNING OF PART TWO: THE SOLDIER

* * *

_In the oldest legends, passed from the First Blood, before Men had even stepped foot on the Motherland--while the Mighty Ones still roamed the lush fields of Atmora, and the dragons were centuries from their zenith over the continent, there was a lake._

_The lake sat at the foot of the looming Medja Mountains, the range that split Atmora north to south, and divided east from west. Neither the Velothi nor the Druadachs, and not even, I believe, this Throat of the World, measured as tall as the Medja's peaks. They were immovable. Impossible. Dark fortresses of rock that stole and gave life freely; gods of their own kind. And the lake never ran dry. It was fed by the abundance of snow and ice that gradually melted down the mountainsides, clear, smooth, and beautiful. Before the gods left Atmora, they created Men, my forefathers, your forefathers, the progenitors of every non-Mer race on Nirn._

_But one of the original Atmoran gods, Afreik, known as the Betrayer--much like myself--and offspring of the greatest god Æsa, killed the first Men. Disparaged, the gods accepted Afreik's excuses and apologies and once again set about to create life on their pristine continent. But Afreik plotted once more to kill them, and, knowing this, was betrayed by his wife, Zyä, who told Æsa and the others that Afreik planned to set a horrible, everlasting winter upon Atmora, to make sure no Man would survive._

_And so, Zyä and the other gods worked to devise a plan that would save the first Men from the winter. They made each new creation highly resistant to cold environments, and did not wake them immediately--instead, they were left beneath the surface of the lake, to wait until Æsa would breathe life into their empty bodies. Afreik set his winter upon Atmora once he had news of the creation of Men, though he did not know where they were._

_Not even the oldest shamans know how much time passed, whether it was days, weeks, years, or even centuries. But, at long last, satisfied with his work, Afreik released the winter, thinking he had outwitted the other gods. It was not so. They knew of his treachery and banished him so far from their celestial plane that not even prayers to his name could be heard. Thus what you and the descendants of my race call the Void came into being. The Men, the First Blood as the Atmorans call them, left the crystalline waters soon after, and returned to worship the lake regularly while also using it as a source of life. They learned to fish, to hunt, to bathe, to build boats, and they heard the stories the gods whispered down to them, of their creation, and warnings of Afreik._

**_That_ ** _is the original Atmoran religion. Humanoid but otherworldly gods, the Mighty Ones, who once roamed the land but have since left to let Man prosper in his own right. And that is where I find myself in this damnable dream, waiting in a dark part of my own consciousness below the thick ice on the lake. And slowly, as the ice melts away and winter recedes, life returns to the surface, and by some force I am pulled up to break the still waters of Vatus Pætrio._

_But this time, my mother is waiting on the shore._

_As I wade out of the holy waters, remembering the last time I was here, whether in skin or spirit, I remember what was gifted to me: memory. I was taken from my home as a child, a toddler, hardly two years old. I had absorbed the soul of a fallen dragon who had landed in our village, and it was sweet chance that Grand Mage Ahzidal—then only a Priest—saw the event. The next twenty-seven years (yes, I am now thirty-three, you need not look so shocked) of my old life were devoted to training, to learning. Languages, swordcraft. Magic. I became a Priest and then First Mage of Solstheim. I did not quite remember my mother, as no two year old child would. And then came the four millennia in Apocrypha, where I meditated for hours, days, reaching into the farthest parts of my mind to retrieve her. My birth father did not exist, and instead his place was taken by Morokei. But my birth mother, remnants of her lingered into my adulthood. The scent of the sea. The image of yarrows. The sight of her smiling lips._ _  
_ _  
_ _In Apocrypha, I began to forget. Memories were stolen, swept quietly away. I did not remember the names of the old gods, nor the faces of people I had known. For some time I forgot my own name. It took a Dragon Break for my mother to return to me what I had lost; for Vatus Pætrio to return to me all I had forgotten. And now I remember everything. Everything, even from my infant years, things people should not usually remember._

_“Mother,” she has never been here before, never in this dream. “What are you doing here?” Even so, it is wonderful to see her face again, and be close to her for the first time in a very long time._ _  
_ _She smiles at me. “Hello, Miraak.” I have missed her face. Her voice. The dragons speak my name coldly, but my mother speaks it with the softness of the summer breeze. When I reach for her hands she gladly gives them. “What were you doing under the ice?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Those words somehow chill me._ _  
_ _“I do not know,” I answer truthfully. What_ **_was_ ** _I doing under the ice? Mother hums and nods. “Do you?”_ _  
_ _“No,” I sense she might be lying, but do not push. “Do you?” She turns now to someone I did not see before, and my birth father strides through the tall grass towards us._

**_Jondor._ **

_“Why are we here, of all places?” He asks. The very sight of him makes my blood roam and boil and freeze. That is the dragon in me speaking. Dragons do not forget enemies. Dragons do not forgive. “Hello, uetonga.” All I can do is nod. Looking at him is like looking into a mirror. My poor mother. “What are we doing here? A dream?”_ _  
_ _“Yes,” sometimes I don’t intend to sound so harsh, but it is the default for my voice. “Of course this is a dream.” Mother hooks her arm in mine and maybe thinks it will keep me from tearing this man’s head off. Jondor and my mother begin talking amongst themselves, and he steps towards the edge of the lake to examine its pristine surface. But something is wrong. The wind changes; once I told Tharya that Atmorans could detect changes in the atmosphere, if they are big enough. We can. The air turns_ **_thin_ ** _, and I find myself inhaling deeply just to get a good breath in. Jondor and my mother keep talking. Can they not feel it?_ _  
_ _  
_ _I turn towards the south. Nothing. East are the Medja Mountains, impossible to see across, above, or through. But it is not coming from there either. I turn home, to the west, and feel a faint familiarity and comfort. That leaves only north._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Móna,” I grasp for her hand. Where is she? “Mother?”_ _  
_ _“What is it, Miraak?”_ _  
_ _“Run.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Somehow I have my staff—it has Tharya’s fine, caring craftsmanship written into the very wood, into the very way it is meant to be held, and...Tharya? How do I know that name? But it is in my head._

 _  
_ _“Go.” There is ice, a powerful, roaring blizzard leaping and bounding down from the north, covering the continent at horrible speed. Ice. Snow. Frost. It freezes air in its wake and leaves an endless stroke of white...is this...the Eternal Winter?_ _  
_ _  
_ _Is this how it happened? My country’s last moments? No, the Eternal Winter had been a slow progression..._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Móna, please,” I don’t care about sounding desperate. The wind picks up around us and all I can think to do is hold her close. Tharya—who?—talks always of how warm I am. Jondor looks at me through the haze. I feel a frigid blast against my back. No winter in Tamriel has ever made me shiver, but the winters of my homeland are more than strong enough to do so tenfold. For the first time in four thousand years I feel uncomfortably cold. The storm shrieks and howls as it ravages the continent, snarling and barking like a pack of rabid wolves, moving with the speed of ten thousand ice wraiths. When I dare to look up there is snow whipping on the wind, I feel my heart pumping faster than it ever has; behind me the storm continues to grow, screaming, growling, trampling all life. This is no ordinary winter. This has to be-_ _  
_ _  
_ _I do not want to, but I pull away from my mother, keeping her behind me, and raise both hands to cast—only ice spells come. Ice?! My preferred magic, yes, but not the only one I know. Fire runes. When I think of them in my head, I feel like the heat rush through my veins, and go to cast again; only ice. Damn it all. This can’t be real. If this is just a dream, why can I feel the wind? The snow? Why can I feel the ice form on my fingertips and crawl up my arms? Why does it feel as if my face is being sliced by thousands of tiny blades at once?_ _  
_ _“Miraak!” It is my mother. I have to cast. I have to protect her. But only ice and frost come from my magicka. How is this possible? I can form the fire spells, I know their shape, their usage, but-_ _  
_ _  
_ _“Miraak!” My mother grabs me and forces me to turn. There is snow clinging to her eyebrows, her round face is rapidly growing pale and gaunt. She is_ **_dying._ ** _“Miraak!” She calls my name again, and the wind grows closer, the foul storm rages all around us, but the worst is not even upon us yet. This is simply the beginning. Around me the luscious green summer—that I somehow did not notice before—is dying, being swallowed by endless, painful white._ _  
_ _  
_ _And before me, my mother shifts into something horrible. A...man? A humanoid figure. Humanoid...taller than me by at least two feet, draped only in heavy red cloth, donning a grotesque mask of solid gold. As they speak, the mask’s jaw moves as if...as if it is their face. Their laugh rises above even the Eternal Winter, like metal grating together. I cannot even feel my ears bleed, but somehow I know they are. The figure grabs me like I am a straw children’s doll, and I feel ice seep in my very being, so cold and so tight I cannot even shiver properly._ _  
_ _  
_ _There are two burning eyes behind the golden mask, and they flare as the figure grins._ _  
_ _  
_ **_“Miraak...”_ ** _it drawls in a voice so loud the entire continent seems to shake,_ **_“you cannot save them, silly little Man.”_ ** _Another screeching laugh, and the being takes a few steps forward. Somehow I know I am frozen solid. There is ice over my eyes, distorting my vision, but I can see the figure properly._ **_“Miraaaak...little Miraak.”_ ** _Without a second thought the entity poises themself and then...hurls me into Vatus Pætrio. The water closes around me and immediately forms into ice. I can’t move. I can’t move. I can’t breathe._ _  
_ _  
_ **_“Miraak...did you think it a mere coincidence the last son of Atmora...is an ice mage?”_ ** _  
_ _  
_ _I can’t move. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t._   
  
  


“Miraak!”

“Dragonborn, he’s not responding.”  
“I can see that! Bhijirio, where the fuck is my hot water!”   
“Coming, coming!”   
  
The bowl was steaming but she didn't care. She threw it directly over the Atmoran, watching the paper-thin, glossy ice on his skin hiss and crack and steam as well. It...didn’t do anything. Her hands were burning and red, fingers stiff and damn near immobile. Borri and Arngeir were crowded around her, and she thought she saw Wulfgar and Einarth in the doorway. Tharya touched Miraak’s forehead before laying an ear against his chest. Though his body was frozen stiff...   
“He has a pulse.”   
“But is he able to breathe?” Bhijirio worried. She racked her brain for every possibility...some kind of curse? Something to do with Atmora? Hermaeus Mora, maybe? “No, no Tharya, think it out. _Think_ , dammit.” She twisted both hands into her hair. He was covered in ice, but his heart was beating. Could he breathe? Unlikely. Which meant... “The ice is magical in nature. Dammit! How did I not see that?! Bhijirio, grab his legs. _Don’t_ let him hit anything, he’ll shatter.”   
  
The Khajiit’s ears flattened to his head at that, eyes wide.   
“Shatter...?”   
“Grab his legs, Bhijirio.” She wasn’t too keen on shattering the First Dragonborn alive either, so very carefully she hoisted her arms under his shoulders.

"Bring him to the fireplace," she said as she slid deftly off the bed. Miraak’s weight pulled at her shoulders but she was determined to keep him up, magicka flowing through her arms to support him. Borri stepped closer, hesitated, and then gently pushed her aside while grabbing Miraak’s right shoulder and arm to help. Tharya didn’t have time to thank him. “As close as you can set him down to the flames should be good.” There was a resounding _clunk_ when Bhijirio set Miraak's feet down too heavily. The ice cracked a bit and every person in the room seemed to wrangle their breath in...but nothing happened. The First Dragonborn remained whole. She carefully laid his head down, wincing as the ice around his neck groaned and crackled. She wasn't forcing it to bend much, but apparently it didn't want to bend at all. 

"Okay. We obviously need to warm him up somehow," despite the hammering in her chest Tharya was determined to keep her wits about her. Everything from here on in required utmost precision and care; a misstep would cost Miraak his life, and she had no Psijics, no ritual circle, no Dragon Break and no Weavers to bring him back again.

Leaning carefully to the side, she outstretched both hands towards the crackling fire. 

"Bhiji, go strip the bed. Bring all the blankets and pillows and—hell, the mattress, if you can. Sorry, Arngeir." Surprisingly, the old man didn't argue.

"Do what you must, Dragonborn." The rest of them watched as the flames danced and stretched towards her hands, making the fire bend like a tree in the wind. For a moment Tharya closed her eyes tightly, and when they opened...  
  
Miraak was a frigid dark color, lined by ominous black, but she could see his soul, orange and bright, swirling within the center of it all. The world around her, High Hrothgar, was a murky speckled grey laid with thin swirling lines of white, and looking to the others, all four Greybeards crowded together hurt her eyes. This celestial vision often came at its own price, but for now it was her best bet. The fire was a flaring mixture of red and strange plum. She watched it arch towards her own hands—a cool, undulating grey-sage color wrought with tendrils of blinding gold—and then felt its heat as she captured it in both palms.   
  
“Here are the blankets,” Bhijirio’s voice echoed in her head painfully but she pushed it aside. He lingered on the edge of her vision, burning yellow and deep blue, swirling every which way. He was dizzying to look at.   
“Thank you,” Tharya murmured. She watched as the fire flickered out completely, now held in her two hands, and then slowly aimed her palms for one another and pressed inwards. The flames spluttered and gasped as they ate one another up, and then with a _clap_ she put her hands together and threw the steam upwards to the ceiling. “It’s about to get really hot in here. Bhiji, sit down on the other side.” She gestured towards the now-empty fireplace. The Khajiit’s soul, a brownish color and thrumming with energy, came into view as he knelt opposite her.   
  
Now, without truly summoning flames to her hands, she cast a fire spell, feeling heat pool in her fingers until she thought they might burst. Her palms began to glow vibrantly, and, with the utmost care, she placed them over the thin sheet of ice covering the First Dragonborn. Bit by bit, the black mingling with Miraak’s color began to recede. Normally he was a shimmering mix of hard teal and wine, and as a Dragonborn, always too brilliant to look at for long; he sported the same lines and markings she did, except where he was bright, the lines were corroded and black. Where he was dark, they were blinding gold. That his color had changed so drastically to this harmful mahogany, so close to black, was beyond terrifying. But the spots her hands touched began to show a slow gradient back to their usual state.

The room began to heat as well, she could feel sweat beading on her forehead and running down the nape of her neck. Somewhere behind her a Greybeard sighed. Each of Tharya’s fingers pulsated with unreleased magic, throbbing painfully, but she was determined to see this through. Miraak was regaining himself. The black was going away.  
“The ice is melting,” Bhijirio whispered, though it sounded like a thunderclap to her ears. Tharya jerked away from his voice.   
“Where?”   
“His torso and face, mainly,” he replied. “But now he’s wet, and this melt is freezing cold.”   
“Rub his arms,” she instructed. “Get the circulation flowing into his extremities.” Keeping the flames below her skin she reached for Miraak’s left arm, hearing ice crack and snap and fall away as she lifted it. "Don't move his joints," she eyed Borri as he knelt beside her and placed a hand gently on Miraak's forehead. "There's no way any human should survive at this temperature but he's alive, so it's magical in nature. Magical ice could shatter his joints into smithereens." Borri gently placed his thumbs on the Atmoran’s temples and rubbed them in slow circles.

  
“I’ll fetch a towel,” Arngeir sighed softly from the doorway and left. Einarth followed after him, but Wulfgar stayed. Bhijirio muttered to himself as he rubbed the ice off Miraak’s fingers and then moved gradually up his arm.   
“This isn’t enough,” Tharya groaned. Though his color was returning, it wasn’t enough, and it wasn’t strong. Closing her eyes again she inhaled and let the pressure that had built in the forefront of her skull dissipate. When she opened them again, the world was normal, though she could feel the drowsiness set in almost immediately. “Okay, I have one last idea, but keep doing your things.” She nodded to both men and released the spell that she’d kept in her hands. A thin column of smoke rose from her fingertips.   
“Hey, Sunshine,” Bhijirio whispered, “your eyes...are bleeding.”   
“I know.” The usual side effect of using her celestial vision. It hurt like hell, but it _couldn’t_ be her priority right now. It just couldn’t.   
  
The Last Dragonborn rubbed her hands together vigorously to return some kind of feeling to them and maybe quell the pain before placing both palms firmly on the First’s chest. Magicka thrummed in her veins, swirling throughout her entire body, and then flooding outwards through her arms. This was different from the muted fire spell; as her magicka left, it was taking her body heat with it, transferring it directly into the man lying prone on the floor. If he couldn’t warm himself, someone would have to do it for him.

Arngeir returned moments later with a pair of large towels in his arms, setting them down near Miraak’s feet and then backing away again.  
“Do you require anything else, Dragonborn?” He asked in a solemn voice. Tharya felt a dizzying wave of shivers crash down around her as her heat was sapped up greedily, by more than her magicka was giving. It created a shocking contrast with the temperature of the room.   
“T-tea,” her teeth chattered the moment she opened her mouth. “Tea, maybe he-he’ll drink it.” The older man nodded and swept out of the room again. “You guys can g-go. I think he’ll be alright.” She nodded to the other Greybeards as she spoke. Miraak’s skin was indeed warming under her palms, back to a more normal temperature. She hated it, but she had to cut her magicka off or else she’d be in the same situation they had just worked tirelessly to get him out of. He would have to do the rest himself.   
  
Bhijirio eyed her as she sat back with a heavy sigh.   
“He’ll need to sit up to have tea,” the Khajiit murmured, looking downwards to the Atmoran before hooking both arms below his shoulders, hoisting Miraak up to the best of his ability so the other man was leaning back against his chest. Tharya switched between wringing and rubbing her fingers to try and make them warm again, focused on the shallow rise and fall of her lover’s chest to assure herself he was indeed breathing. And...mumbling to himself? “How did you do that trick with the fire? I’m sweating like a pig now.” Tharya blinked.   
“Just some...some magic, I guess. Air magic?”   
“Sylvan magic,” Miraak blurted, making them both jump. They waited for a beat but he didn’t say anything else, only lapsed back into his incoherent muttering to himself after the silence. _Sylvan magic._ He had somehow understood their conversation? Enough to respond? So how could he not be out of his haze? Tharya dug her nails into her palm before scrambling to her feet.   
“I’m gonna go see about that tea,” she whispered, swiveling around and stalking out of the room.   
  
A gasp left her lips the moment she was in the hall, feet stopping in their tracks. It was the middle of the night, and the First Dragonborn had just been _thawed out_ from a living deathtrap. How had he gotten that way in the first place? Some kind of magic? _It has to be,_ she reminded herself. _It has to be magic, or he wouldn’t be alive._ Miraak was not even close to stupid enough to do something like that to himself. And he would never let it go unnoticed, even in sleep. So it had taken him by surprise, immobilized him before he could do anything about it. Perhaps he had unknowingly caused all this? But how would he have done that in his sleep? 

As her mind raced she slid against the nearest wall and pressed herself into the corner, lowering her head and folding her hands over the back of her neck. _Sylvan magic._ He had spoken. How? At first she thought he had been replying to her and Bhijirio’s conversation, but now she remembered earlier she had been telling him about Celann, Erandur and Nightcaller Temple. Celann had said the words _sylvan magic_ , and she had recited them to him. Maybe he was just remembering?

_“They left you.”_   
_“Yeah.”_  
  
She almost hadn’t been phased when Avulstein and the others abandoned her in Dawnstar. She remembered watching the ships in the harbor, after she had woken up from whatever semi-coma the Dreamstride had put her in. There was a short note from Avulstein left with the innkeeper, but she hadn’t followed its instructions. Maybe she should’ve. He had said they would be taking a ship as far as the Solitude harbor, and were paying them to drop the group off on the far bank so they could travel around the city completely. He had said, if she caught a boat today, she would catch up easily.   
  
She hadn’t done it.

Miraak, for all his usual lack of facial expressions, had looked surprised when she said that. Was he aware no one else in the world actually cared for her as much as he did? What was there to be surprised about? She had been a bumbling drunken idiot. A criminal. Was he aware she’d never loved someone before? She hadn’t been phased when Avulstein and the others abandoned her in Dawnstar, but this, _this_ was terrifying. Ghosts of the past she could contend with, but not the present situation. She couldn’t lose Miraak, even if she lost all the others those years ago.   
  
“Dragonborn?”   
  
Tharya felt her shoulders jump at the intruding voice, pulling her out of where her thoughts had violently derailed from the situation at hand. It was Arngeir, looking down at her with worry etched into his old face. “Are you quite alright, dear?” She knew Miraak hated the Greybeards, but they were all good men; they had taught her a lot and never argued when she showed up out of the blue asking to stay. Arngeir put up a solid front whenever the First Dragonborn was around, but without him to contend with, Arngeir and the others were kind.   
“Is that tea?” She asked, pulling herself to her feet. _Stupid, stupid, cowering in the corner while there’s things to be done._ “I’ll take it to him.”   
“Very well,” Arngeir nodded and carefully handed her the cup. “Is there anything else we can do for you? Einarth is checking outside to see if the...incident was perhaps an attack, from an enemy.” It made sense Einarth would do that; from what Tharya understood of him, he had been a soldier a long time ago. He still walked like one.   
“No, he’s, um...well, he’s awake, kind of. He should be able to drink,” she lied, “I think he’ll be okay tomorrow. We’ll leave as soon as we can, okay?”   
Arngeir’s features fell before he replied, “Don’t worry about what I said earlier, Tharya,” he said gently. “If he—if Miraak needs to rest here, he is welcome to do so.”   
  
She stared at him. The Greybeards had never spoken his name aloud before.

When she returned with his tea Miraak was where she’d left him, lying safely back against Bhijirio’s chest as the Khajiit continued to rub his arms. He was still mumbling softly to himself, eyes heavy and glazed, unblinkingly staring at the dark fireplace.  
“What’s he saying?” Tharya asked, sitting carefully on the floor beside the Atmoran.   
“No idea,” Bhijirio murmured. She braced herself on her arms and leaned towards the First Dragonborn, listening intently to the nearly inaudible words tumbling out on his breath.   
“Sounds like a prayer,” she said quietly, examining Miraak’s face closely.   
“He prays?” A nod.   
“Not in front of people.”   
  
A dense silence settled between them with those words, thick and growing steadily uncomfortable. If he was indeed praying, it felt wrong to be sitting here listening to it. Tharya knew Miraak was religious to his own extent, but he was awfully private about practicing it. Somehow she didn’t doubt he prayed, though she had never seen or heard it before.   
“ _Kæra Maidira, predare min...veste strykkë en tarjund min...in veste anfeindelig liefdor ent'armia...int'isto...meus hawr d'angen. Kæra Maidira, predare...min veste...”_ She tried to listen and form each word in her head but Higher Atmoran was a language notorious for too many syllables and sounds, each word a mouthful of letters battling one another on the tongue. “ _Strykkë en tarjund min in veste...”_ The only words she could be entirely certain of were _Kæra Maidira_ .   
  
“Alright. Let’s see if we can dry him off and then just...can you make the bed?” She gestured to the pile of blankets and pillows. “The kinda bed?”   
“Yeah, sure,” Bhijirio shifted where he sat. “Can you hold him up?”   
“Oh.” Tharya blinked. “Um, I can definitely try.”

The Khajiit grinned before shaking his head, “If you make the bed, Sunshine, I’ll keep him. He weighs a million. I’ll see if he can drink that, too,” he gestured for the tea which she placed lightly on the floor near him. With a sigh Tharya scooted over towards the mess of things Bhijirio had tore off the bed, finding the mattress folded over on itself towards the bottom. She shucked everything else away and then straightened that out, arranged the pillows, all the while listening carefully to Bhijirio murmuring to the First Dragonborn. She saw the teacup be lifted and then put down again untouched.   
“ _Kæra Maidira, predare min veste strykkë...en tarjund min...in veste anfeindelig liefdor ent'armia...int'isto...meus hawr d'angen.”_ It had to be a prayer; she only wished she knew what it meant.   
  
“Alright. If you can just kind of...push him this way?” She made a gesture for Miraak.   
“Can do.” Bhijirio maneuvered carefully to his knees, stooping down to wind both arms around the Atmoran. Shifting into a crouch and painting a look of determination on his face, he lifted Miraak clean off the ground with a hefty grunt. “Holy shit. Worst idea of my life,” he wheezed as one leg fell out of his grip. “My gods,” he took a few hobbling steps forward, “how much does he weigh?”   
“I’m not supposed to say, but two fifty-three.”   
“Damn,” the Khajiit huffed, stumbling more towards the makeshift bed and setting his charge down with a heavy thud. Tharya immediately noticed he had stopped whispering to himself, or at least slowed down. It was less urgent. His eyes were still open though. Gently—ignoring the trembling in her hand—she dragged two fingers over his eyelids and hoped to each Divine they stayed closed. They did. With a shaky sigh she then put both fingers to his forehead and let her magicka flow outwards and down her arm. Within a few seconds he was fast asleep.   
“Well,” Bhijirio sat with a huff. “I guess that’s that, Sunshine.”   
“Yeah,” Tharya replied, delivering her head into her hands. “That’s that.”

They both situated themselves on the makeshift bed, Miraak sprawled and breathing shallowly between them. Tharya stroked his face as he slept, whispered to him that she loved him, and waited quietly for sunrise.

  
  


**Fredas, 29th of Frostfall**

The morning crept cautiously around the mountain, and when it was almost noon Tharya finally left Miraak; he was sleeping, and probably would for another few hours. All that mattered to her was that he had made it through the night without further incident and without further assistance. That, for now, would be her assurance that he would get better. It would take time and rest, but he would. His skin had returned to its usual rich brown color, his lips no longer bluish and pale, and when she carefully touched him, he was warm. Atmoran warm.   
  
She laid there with him for a bit, loathe to leave the comfort of the blankets. Bhijrio was snoring just on the other side of their makeshift bed. _It wouldn’t be horrible to stay like this all day, would it?_ _Yes, yes it would. The most unproductive day ever._ Depending on Miraak’s condition she planned to leave tonight. They would use his travel spell to teleport down into Ivarstead and stay the night in the Vilemyr Inn. Not only because she felt bad for depleting the Greybeards’ food supply, but also because she didn’t want to be stuck on High Hrothgar when the snow came, a three day climb—and that was in good weather—to the nearest shop or apothecary. Tharya would much rather Miraak be miserable for a few days of travel than stuck away from help. She could rest easy once they got him to Whiterun; her mother Anari and Arcadia, the alchemist, would be close at hand.   
She got dressed in the noon quiet, rummaged through her pack and brought out a small package wrapped in a raggedy old cloth; a small block of wood and her grandfather’s old whittling knife, with an elegant handle and sharpened blade. She’d been meaning to start this for a while, but simply hadn’t found the time. Transferring both wood and blade to one hand she reached back into the bag to extract a tall, thin book, tucked it under her arm, and made her way outside.  
  
The courtyard was equally as devoid of life, but in a pleasant way. Wulfgar—she knew each Greybeard well enough by now to discern them simply by their magical aura—sat on the cliff that jutted out from the mountainside just past the gate Borri had taught her Whirlwind Sprint. He was probably meditating. Adjusting her ruana below her, Tharya settled on the steps and began scraping her blade steadily along the rectangular sharpening stone that had also been wrapped in the cloth.   
  
High Hrothgar remained quiet for the better part of an hour; she assumed there wasn’t much noise here to begin with. It was soothing, if cold, this far from the bustle of normal life. A good respite, an even better retreat. As she tucked the stone away and turned the little block of wood in her hands, a roar echoed through the clouds. It came from the west. Tharya raised one hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she watched the large silhouette of a dragon approach, great wings flapping on the wind. Their soul burned brightly and sent out a resonating hum that hit her with pleasant recognition.  
  
Odahviing.  
  


The ruby dragon exhaled when she put her arms around his snout, nudging her legs gently.

“One of the _Sadon-In_ has told me _faal Grutiik_ is still with you,” he rumbled. Tharya bit back a sigh. Of course. Miraak was all Odahviing worried about now. “Evil _Jul-Diin._ You should be rid of him while you still have the chance.” _Jul-Diin?_ That was new. Man...freezing? No, Man-frost. _Jul_ meant Man as in Mankind, _diin_ was frost or freezing. Man of Frost. It was a title, or a name—a name for one of the Atmoran race.   
“That won’t happen,” she said, stepping away from the dragon.   
“It is a grave mistake, _mal dovah,_ ” Odahviing lifted his head ever so slightly, gazing down at her.   
“I know you think it is,” Tharya replied, “but Miraak is here to stay.” He grunted at her speaking the First Dragonborn’s true name, looking away.   
“He is unworthy of you.”   
“He’s here to stay,” she repeated, “I’m sorry.”

A bitter wind blew across the mountaintop. Tharya wrapped her arms slowly around her middle. It would no doubt be difficult, to be both a savior to Man and dragon, with someone the dragons hated at her side. And with someone perhaps even Men would hate, if they knew he had been a part of the Dragon Cult so long ago. Miraak’s name was rising alongside hers in Skyrim, and no doubt in Tamriel; they had not exactly kept a low profile since leaving Apocrypha. Sooner or later, people were bound to find out. She only hoped they’d done enough to redeem him whenever that day came.  
  
Thinking to herself for a moment, she narrowed her eyes on Odahviing, uncrossing her arms.

"Actually, you know what? I'm not gonna apologize for that. I'm tired of all your dick measuring contests. That goes for Miraak too. I don't care what he did _four thousand years ago_ , you're all on the same side now." 

Odahviing huffed, "He is on no one's side but his own." 

"I'm sorry, have _you_ spent the last four years with him? No. Didn't think so." 

"But I knew him at his zenith, _mal dovah._ " Odahviing's nostrils flared. "He is brutal and unforgiving and he _will_ hurt you." She threw her hands up. 

"I don't know how many times I have to say that he's not that kind of asshole anymore. Sure he's still an _asshole_ , but he doesn't go around killing dragons, breaking islands and shit. None of you _know_ what he went through in Apocrypha, and if you did, you'd be too scared to shit." The ruby dragon drew himself up. He didn’t frighten her—she was aware Odahviing felt strongly for her, and _he_ wouldn't be the one to turn against her. But she was also aware that he was a _dragon_ and she was a five-foot-seven woman. 

"Anything he suffered at the hands of the Daedra was well-deserved." Her fists balled tightly. 

"Don't _fucking_ say that to me. You have **_no idea_ ** what happened." 

"Then teach me." 

"I'm not going to, because it's _his_ story to tell. But don't you dare think for a moment he doesn't deserve to...to walk the damn earth! How does he not deserve to live too? Why can't you all take the sticks out of your butts?" She sighed lowly, dragging her hands along her face. "I still love you. And Paarthurnax. But I also love Miraak, as much as you try to insert yourself and push me away and play Divine. Did you ever think he antagonizes you just to see if _you've_ changed?" 

Silence. 

"Didn't think so. I'm done defending him from you. From _all_ of you," she gestured around the summit. “From Akatosh his fucking self! I get he did bad things. He won't ever be perfect. But he bleeds too, just like you and me." 

Out of things to say, she turned on her heel and trudged back towards the heavy metal doors leading back into the monastery. They slammed shut with a resonating ring of finality behind her. Tharya was so absorbed with her thoughts she hardly even noticed Miraak standing at the window nearest the door, his arms crossed over his chest. When she did see him, her feet ground to a halt and she stared; he looked terrible, exhausted, feeble, and she took it all in instead of saying anything.  
  
“We’re leaving this afternoon, after I talk to Arngeir, if you’re up for it,” she stated simply, and he nodded once. Didn’t ask what she needed to talk to Arngeir about. She clenched the whittling knife in one hand and found the corner she’d selfishly sunk into the night previous, taking a slow breath before focusing on the knife and the wood. She still had no idea what she was going to make.   
  
With uncanny cat-like footsteps, Miraak followed her, and lingered a yard or so away as he watched her cram herself into the stone wall. Didn’t it hurt? Why was she trying to make herself so small? The first time he went to speak the only thing that came out was a dreadful croak, followed by a rattling, horrendous cough. Tharya didn’t look up.   
“You’ve been coughing a lot,” she observed, but her voice was not soft.

"What did Odahviing say?" He asked, rubbing his throat. She carved out another chunk of wood with the little knife and then began scraping it in long, slow strokes. 

"What everyone else says." The Atmoran rolled his eyes. 

"I told you we should not have-" 

"Miraak!" He stopped. Her shoulders coiled tightly. "Sorry. I didn't mean to yell. I just--I can't hear that right now, okay? I can't hear _I told you so_ after I just screamed at a damn dragon trying to defend your honor or whatever." He chewed his lip in a moment of rare speechlessness. 

"That was insensitive of me," Miraak said. 

"Yes, it was." It took a lot to keep from biting back, and for anyone else he would've. But instead he crossed the room to the dim corner she had crushed herself into, as if taking up anymore space were illegal. With a groan he sank beside her and then cast a magelight that hovered over her head as she whittled. 

"You should not do that in the dark, lest you hurt yourself." 

"I've been whittling a long time." She paused. "Did you just say _lest?_ " Miraak held her gaze for a moment before nodding. They sat in silence for a moment before he spotted a thin book between her feet, and reached for it to see the cover. 

"What's this?" 

"An old birthday present from Aldis," she murmured, dragging the blade across the wood methodically. "Pick something out if you want, and I'll make it." Miraak thumbed through the book--it was really more of a catalog of things to whittle and make with step-by-step instructions, simple diagrams, some drawings. A bird, a cat with a high, twirling tail, a man... 

Silently he tilted a page to her and pointed one out. Tharya hummed. 

"A duck?" 

"Why not?"

"Do you want one of those full-sized wooden ones with paint or just a..." she shrugged, "an itty bitty one?" He shrugged back. 

"The latter." 

"Okay." 

Silence. He hated when _she_ was silent. He was always silent, but when Tharya ran out of things to say, it was bad. Or when she chose not to speak. But he knew better than to force words out of her by now, else he'd just shove her further back into the darkness, make her close in on herself more. For now he could be content to sit here quietly beside her and watch her scrape and shape the wood in her hands.

"I'm sorry you have to go to war over me, _prinsaessa,_ " he murmured softly, his voice still hoarse. Tharya felt her fingers curl towards her palms, around the knife and the wood, hands turning into fists. She stared at the cold tile floor for a long, dense moment, before letting out a shaky breath.

"It's okay," she replied, in a voice that told him it was certainly not _okay_ , "I've been to war over worse things before."


	16. XII. Sky Above, Voice Within

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i forgot to post earlier this week, it's so busy :( here is chapter 12!

Bhijirio had first stumbled across the Dragonborns in Windhelm, on his quest to find the woman in the letter Kharjo had sent. He and Kharjo hadn’t talked much in recent years, as his cousin had been traveling Skyrim while he himself did some bounty hunting in Black Marsh. But the letter found him in Cyrodiil, he had no idea how. Kharjo had not dated it, only said to seek out a woman called Tharya Throne-Breaker, the Last Dragonborn. He had described her as “looking like every other Nord, but you will know her when you first lay eyes on her.” There was no reason why and thus nothing truly compelling him to follow the note, but Bhijirio did so anyway. He made quick time through Cyrodiil and then up through Skyrim slowly, arriving in Falkreath first. People knew the Dragonborn but had not seen her in some time; they directed him to Whiterun.   
  
In Whiterun, he met Fjurkin Sun-Sword, who emphatically recounted that the Dragonborn was his daughter, but had left to go adventuring some time ago. Bhijirio dined with the Dragonborn’s family that night and left to pursue his final option: Windhelm. Kharjo had mentioned he was in Windhelm at the time of writing his letter, and that Ulfric was getting worse, and that Tharya Throne-Breaker had recently traveled to Solstheim via the Windhelm ship  _ Northern Maiden. _ It was in Windhelm, sitting and nursing his second drink for the night in Candlehearth Hall, that he first saw the Last Dragonborn.   
  
Kharjo had been right; she looked normal. Of average height and build, though lean, she had pale skin and golden hair like almost every one of her Nord kinsfolk. She had six lines of crisscrossing black warpaint across the upper half of her face that created a diamond on her forehead. Her eyes were bright and lively, but a somber hardness lurked always behind them; a soldier’s eyes, a burdened hero’s eyes. Bhijirio had seen the like before, and he knew they were not usually happy people. She looked normal, but she exuded an  _ aura _ that was impossible to place or name. Immediately he felt at ease in her presence, like he was seeing an old friend walk through the door. But she also felt simply... _ brilliant. _ The entire inn seemed brighter to have her in it. The cold felt less biting. She was so amazing to be around but she didn’t have to do a damn thing to be that way. She didn’t command attention, she simply attracted it. And, even with her slim frame, she oozed strength and power. Maybe not physical strength, but a rare kind of mental fortitude and sharpness that was not a particularly common trait in Nords.   
  
And then, behind her, in walked the First Dragonborn.   
  
Of course Bhijirio hadn’t known him as such then, and wouldn’t for a while. But he  _ did _ know the man who followed in Tharya Throne-Breaker’s footsteps had to duck to enter the doorway, and his hood cast a dark shadow over his face, of which Bhijirio could only see part of his jaw and lips. His clothes were simple but obviously custom; a dark blue poncho made of thick material, probably lined with fur just as the hood was, with golden threads creating a squarish, Nordic pattern around the edges. The sleeves were fitted. By the Twin Moons, he was huge! Who had any business being that tall, or that broad? He, too, had an air about him, but it was a far cry from the Last Dragonborn. Staring at the man, Bhijrio immediately felt uncomfortable (and somehow underdressed in...armor?), felt scrutinized, watched. He itched to get up and walk into the other room, as far from this towering figure as possible. The man in blue felt  _ dark _ , and  _ angry, _ but most of all he felt  _ guarded.  _ Guarded, and guarding.   
  
Slowly, he let his hood down. His skin was rich brown, reminiscent of fresh earth, a short beard framing a strong jaw, thick eyebrows sitting knitted together above a broad but proportional nose, and lifeless yet vivacious eyes the color of lava, of molten gold, of a burning sunset. And he was staring directly at Bhijirio. The Khajiit got the feeling he probably had been the whole time. That stare, though...to be both so empty and yet so fiery, so cold and so hot it could make one squirm. So dark and unwelcoming. He didn’t want to guess what horrors this man had seen to make him look like that.   
  
As he stood, Bhijirio heard the man talk. His voice was impeccable and low, a close rumble of fresh thunder. His accent was thick. The language he spoke in was lost to the Khajiit’s acute ears. The Last Dragonborn replied:   
“Well, two nights just in case. Looks like the storm might keep into tomorrow,” she leaned around her huge companion and squinted out one of the windows by the door. “So we’ll probably have to wait it out.”   
  
Thus he had met both Dragonborns in Windhelm, by blind luck. As it turned out they were exploring a nearby Nordic barrow called Revakheim, and though her companion—who made a point of not speaking nor introducing himself to Bhijirio—obviously didn’t like it, Tharya invited him along. Somehow he ended up spending the next two years with them, even when they dragged him to Yokuda. Still he didn’t know why Kharjo wanted him to seek the Last Dragonborn out, and he assumed he never would. He and Tharya became fast friends, but Miraak, as he finally revealed his name to be, remained a stony outlier for quite some time. Perhaps until even the Yokuda expedition. It was difficult to know him, even more so to talk to him. Bhijirio came to learn that he had relatively grey morals and refused to do anything that didn’t directly benefit himself, Tharya, or the pursuit of knowledge. He was utterly loyal to the woman he walked beside, almost scarily so, and hovered around her at all times like a wraith. But after some shared hardships Miraak became malleable enough to call a friend.    
  
Tharya liked to sing when they traveled. Miraak hated enclosed areas with books. Tharya was an excellent tracker, a great craftswoman, and knew more about nature than pretty much anyone. Miraak was a living encyclopedia of knowledge that somehow all fit in his head. Tharya knew the sign language of the giants, Miraak knew seven languages, Tharya could whittle almost anything, Miraak could recite poetry. Both had a past they never spoke of, shared and separate ones. Bhijirio was able to pick up bits and pieces as they traveled together; Miraak was some sort of priest from the Mythic Era, and had been imprisoned in Oblivion for thousands of years. He was an Atmoran, the parent race of the Nords and practically every other race of Men in Tamriel. Tharya had once been a soldier and fought in the Skyrim Civil War, and, as it was revealed one less than savory night, was a werewolf. She apparently also knew quite a bit about architecture and liked exploring ruins and barrows.   
  
Both were incredibly hard people to completely understand, even if Tharya was so laidback and easy to love, she kept her fair share of secrets and stories, stored quietly behind her soldier eyes. Both had become important to Bhijirio in their own separate ways, and both were deeply, deeply in love with one another.

That thought struck him now as he watched Miraak slowly nod off from where he was slouched beside Tharya, his cheek inching closer and closer to her scalp each time he fell another notch deeper into sleep. You didn’t have to know Miraak long to know he trusted no one besides himself and his love. He was always on alert, always watching, waiting. But here he was falling asleep while Tharya and Bhijirio talked quietly amongst themselves in a rare moment of unguardedness. Tharya felt his cheek finally hit her hair and sighed.

  
“He’s finally out?” Bhijirio nodded. “I think the trip to Whiterun will be slow,” she added, reaching out to fit her hand carefully into one of Miraak’s limp, open palms. The size difference was damn near comical. “If you plan on coming?”   
“I’d like to, but I don’t want to impose on you guys more than I already have.” The Khajiit scoffed quietly, watching Miraak’s eyelids flutter and his fingers slowly twitch around her hand. “I did say I was going back to Cyrodiil, didn’t I.”   
“You can stay, Bhiji. You’re more than welcome to stay with us,” Tharya nodded carefully. “Can I ask now?” He shrugged. “Why did you come back?”   
“Why, Sunshine, you want me gone?” The response came naturally with a grin that made his eyes squint. She smiled but gave him a knowing look. “I don’t know, really. I...I was certain that going back to Cyrodiil was what I wanted, and that I’d overstayed my welcome. I wish I knew why Kharjo had wanted me to come find you,” he shook his head. “I didn’t really expect to stay so long, honestly. But, you guys had talked about going back to Whiterun for the winter...I figured it was time for me to take my leave.”   
  
Tharya nodded slowly along as he spoke, tracing the creases of Miraak’s palm with her fingers. Why hadn’t she thought of it that way? She should’ve included Bhijirio in the plan. Always she thought it was implied he was welcome, always she figured he’d let them know if he was going to leave. It would be shitty, whenever he did eventually leave them, but it would just be another drop in the bucket for her.  _ Everyone leaves. _ Kharjo had left. Avulstein had left. She had left.  _ Everyone leaves. _   
  
“You are unbelievably melodramatic,” Miraak said suddenly, sighing against her scalp. The Atmoran clasped his hand around hers and opened his eyes to stare at Bhijirio.    
“That’s rich coming from you, Gloomy,” the Khajiit laughed heartily. “You’re a one-man drama act.” Miraak groaned in reply and straightened out, craning his neck to pop the stiffness out of it.    
“There’s room in Whiterun for you, Bhiji, I promise,” Tharya smiled. “And I’d love for you to stay, but whatever you do you should do for you, and not because you’ve outstayed your welcome. You haven’t.” He nodded once, looking down at his hands resting carefully on his knees. He didn’t know why, but Bhijirio let his eyes flit up to Miraak, who was staring at him. The Atmoran was, surprisingly, first to give in.   
“Speak.” He grunted.   
“How do you feel about it?” Tharya he had grown to love, but Miraak was still something of an enigma to the Khajiit. His approval or disapproval could change things greatly; they worked like an odd team that way. If Tharya let him stay but Miraak didn’t want him to, it would be one very uncomfortable winter.

“I believe you can make your own decisions,” the Priest replied.  _ How typically unhelpful. _ “But...I would welcome your fellowship should you choose to remain in Skyrim.” What an elegant and overblown way of saying  _ Yeah, I like you enough, you can stay. _ “And I am certain, as  _ elskavin _ said, there is room enough in Whiterun.”

With a gentle but satisfied smile, Bhijirio nodded. That was it then. He was staying.

  
  


**Loredas, 30th of Frostfall, 4E 207**

The next day Tharya let them laze about until mid-morning and then they went to readying themselves for the road. Miraak was unusually sluggish and a tired kind of quiet rather than a chosen kind of quiet. Bhijirio knew Tharya was keeping a close eye on him and he vowed internally to do the same. By noon they were leaving Ivarstead on the horizon, Miraak with his hood up and staring rather blankly ahead, Tharya leading, and Bhijirio on the outside to create a little triangle with Runa in the center. All was comfortably serene except for the birds singing their last before true winter came, and occasionally Runa would dart off into the woods only to reappear just ahead of them a few minutes later on the road.   
  
“ _ Elskavin _ ,” Miraak broke the long hours of silence first, just as the sky began to redden.    
“Hm?” She looked over her shoulder at him.   
“Your story does not end in Dawnstar,” he replied. Bhijirio had no idea what they were talking about so he remained silent.   
“Oh. Well, the war is next,” there was a noticeable difference in her speech now. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to hear about that.”

Now Bhijirio spoke up, “The Civil War?”   
“That’s the one.” Suddenly she wasn’t just easy-going Tharya anymore. Staring at her back, the Khajiit could see the hardened soldier hiding under her skin. The way she sat in the saddle had a whisper of cavalry in it. The way she held herself had a sprinkle of footsoldier. For some reason he glanced to Miraak, who was examining her much the same, his face contorted lightly. The Atmoran looked at him in a knowing sort of way before clearing his throat.   
“If you tell it, I will listen.” Now Tharya turned to look at Bhijirio over her other shoulder, a look he hadn’t received before and hoped he never would again.

"Well, Ulfric had once said that a winter would decide a war. And damn, how right he was." Tharya chuckled but it was empty and unamused. "How much would you say I weigh now?" Miraak pulled back to examine her differently for a moment, calculating but also appreciative. 

"Conversion factor between stones and pounds...eight, nine stones? Between one hundred twenty and one hundred thirty pounds." Bhijirio blinked. The hell kind of measuring system was  _ stones? _

"Sounds about right, give or take," Tharya shrugged. "I was about the same, maybe a little more, going into the war. By the time Solitude was burning and I watched my grandfather's old house fall..." she looked him in the eye, her features near expressionless if not for the lurking pain. "I probably weighed ninety-five pounds, soaking wet."

Suddenly the late afternoon did not seem so beautiful, and winter was not held at bay but already upon them.

* * *

_ “I’m going to be a soldier.”  _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Those were the first words she heard when she stepped into Breezehome that night. She didn’t know what had brought her to her parents’ house instead of her own, but whatever it was, a feeling, a gut sensation, it had led her to where her family was gathered in a tight knot around the dinner table. Not one of them turned when the front door opened, because they were all too absorbed in those words— _ **_I’m going to be a soldier_ ** _ —that they didn’t notice her. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ After a beat of silence her father moaned as if he’d been stabbed, sinking into one of the round-backed chairs. And then she said: _ _  
_ _ “Me too.” All eyes turned to the doorway, to her. Fjurkin bolted up. _ _  
_ _ “When did you get home, duckling?” He sounded alarmed but was trying his utmost not to.  _ _  
_ _ “Just now,” Tharya replied, shutting the door quietly behind her. She looked across the room to Jorstus, the only one standing amongst the family. “Who said that, you?” She asked him. He nodded.  _ _  
_ _ “Which side are you fighting for?” He countered, his jaw tight. Tharya blanked. She hadn’t...she hadn’t decided. She had only decided to fight in the war. Soldiers were driven by purpose, weren’t they? And maybe...maybe the war would be good for her. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ As if war was good for anyone. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ “Ulfric,” she said finally, in a quiet voice. On the way home from Dawnstar she and Celann had encountered a Thalmor patrol. In a spur of the moment decision they fought them, fought all four of them, and killed them there on the roadside. Celann looked terrified. The prisoner they had been holding whooped with joy and embraced her when she cut his binds. They had killed the Thalmor. Celann went his way after that, leaving Tharya with the prisoner. She shared what she could as he told her of Thalmor horrors. She made up her mind to fight in the war. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ “Good,” Jorstus had said, nodding slowly at her. He seemed relieved, but not because she was also fighting for Ulfric. He was relieved because he wouldn’t have to risk killing her if they met on the battlefield. “Me too.” _

**Middas, 11th of Last Seed, Windhelm 4E 202**

The Palace of the Kings was large and impending, built on the natural mountain slope to sit above the rest of Windhelm. The stairs were a grueling climb. It was cold grey stone, identical to the rest of the city, with thick blue banners hanging beside obscenely large metals doors. Each banner bore the boldly outlined bear of Windhelm on it, mouth hanging open against the cold. Despite its appearance the bear didn’t look very intimidating; its face was placid and untroubled. The open mouth seemed to be mimicking human surprise rather than a dreadful tundra predator.

She and Jorstus had arrived the day before in Windhelm, seat of rebellious power. After a night’s stay in Candlehearth Hall they made their way up through the city towards the towering figure of the Palace of the Kings, and were let in by two guards. The steward bid them to stay put while he fetched Ulfric.   
  
“Palace of the  _ Kings _ ,” Tharya mused quietly, looking around. There were even more banners hanging around the border of the ceiling in here, a thousand lazy-looking bears all staring at their neighbor’s shoulders. “Maybe the name got to him.” At her side Jorstus shifted but allowed a smile to dance across his face.    
“Careful when you say those things now, little sister,” he chided under his breath. After a moment he reached for her hand and gave it a nervous squeeze. “I told Mother I would look after you.”   
“Funny, she made me promise the same thing,” Tharya grinned up at him.    
  
Their parents had been...less than pleased to hear they were both deciding to fight. Anari remained tight-lipped and tried to appear neutral but her gaunt expression was more than enough, her hand gripping her husband’s shoulder was more than enough. Fjurkin did not try to hide his discontent; he made many attempts to talk them both down from it. As Tharya recalled her last conversation with her father, it made her wonder.   
“Jorstus?”   
“Hm.”   
“Do you think maybe Dad was a soldier?” Her brother looked at her first from the corner of his eye and then fully. He shared Anari’s kind, smooth face, with dirty-blond hair and pale green eyes. Tharya had quite a few reasons to believe her father had, at one time, fought. By the time the Great War was underway he would’ve been nineteen, more than old enough to draft. And Fjurkin didn’t talk much of his younger years; though he was a great storyteller, each tale seemed to have been born after the Great War, and the time before was shrouded in darkness.    
  
And if he had indeed fought in the Great War, then it would only be natural he despised the idea of letting his children follow in his footsteps.   
  
“I don’t know,” Jorstus replied in his usual contemplative voice. “I think it’s possible.” Any further thoughts he had on the matter were kept in that continuously working head of his. Jorstus was smart, probably the smartest out of all of them, and never spoke out of turn. He’d do just fine.   
  
“...send him a stronger message?”   
“If by  _ message _ , you mean shoving a sword through his gullet...” The door to the right of the throne swung open as two men entered the main hall, one dressed in traditional furs and one...she recognized from the back of a wagon.   
“Taking his city and leaving him in disgrace would make a more powerful statement, don’t you think?” Ulfric said, glancing over his fur pauldron to the man dressed in what looked to be bear hide. Divines, he had a whole bear’s head sitting atop his own. “Balgruuf is a true Nord. He’ll come around.” Tharya’s blood ran cold and she squeezed Jorstus’s hand again.  _ Balgruuf. _ They were talking about Whiterun. About home.    
  
The man following Ulfric grumbled something—his voice was raspy and growly, like he was both a lifetime acquaintance with smoking and also trying to embody the sounds of the animal he wore—and then his eyes shot up to the pair waiting by the throne. The Jarl of Windhelm’s boots scraped to a stop as he examined them both.    
“Only the foolish or the truly courageous approach a Jarl without summons,” he said lowly. His voice was deep and smooth, and every word he spoke was calculated, precise. Ulfric’s eyes lingered on Tharya uncomfortably before they moved to scrutinize Jorstus. “But obviously my steward let you in for a reason.”   
“We’re here to join your ranks, my lord,” her brother spoke up before she could. Good of him to say  _ ranks _ . She would’ve just called it a  _ rebellion _ . A rebellion clinging to its last fleeting shreds of life before it was completely crushed by the Imperial war machine. She prayed to the Divines they were making the right choice. Ulfric grinned back at the bear hide man as if he’d won a bet.   
“Of course,” the Jarl said, climbing the few steps to his throne and seating himself in it with ease. “Your brothers and sisters have already flocked to our banners, from every corner of the country. The people are finally rising,” he sounded rather pleased about it. “And with their strength, we will topple the faithless law of the cowering Empire and retake our land so her glory may yet again shine upon her people.”   
  
_ Her. _ Why did conquering men always refer to lands as  _ her? _   
  
“Your great vision is shared, my lord, by me and my sister,” Jorstus bowed his head and Tharya scrambled to do the same. She wasn’t exactly sure she shared in The Vision, she just wanted to worship her gods. Ulfric repeated the word  _ sister _ to himself. Creepy.   
“There is no stronger bond in this world than that of siblings,” the Jarl nodded approvingly. Maybe that was why he called everyone  _ sons _ and  _ daughters _ of Skyrim. To bind them together. “Where are you from?”   
“Whiterun,” Jorstus said.   
“Ah. Forced to flee your home-”  _ what? No. We weren’t forced to do anything. _ “-to escape the dangers of Imperial rule. You have family there?”   
“Yes, my lord.”   
“And you intend to fight for liberation, or fight for your family?”   
He didn’t hesitate. “Are families not liberated by the liberation of their land, my lord?” Ulfric chuckled wryly.   
“Smart boy.” 

Adjusting himself on his throne again, sitting with his knees spread in a semi-dignified manner and his shoulders loose, the Jarl of Windhelm nodded down at them.   
“Speak to Galmar. He’ll outfit and assign you within the hour,” one hand extended to gesture towards the bear hide man. “First I have some questions.” Those words stopped them both in their tracks. “You,” Ulfric looked directly at Tharya, his pale eyes burrowing into her head. “Do I know you?” Dear gods, this was the same kind of anxiety she felt when she had seen Tullius in the Castle Dour.   
“I believe so,” she replied, and then quickly added: “My lord. I was...at Helgen, about a year ago,” clearing her throat, she went on. “When the dragon attacked. We were in the same wagon.” The man opposite her let out a brief, hearty laugh, nodding his recognition.   
“Ah, yes. Destined for the chopping block, if I recall?”   
“As we all were,” she replied without thinking, and then scrambled again to tack on  _ my lord _ . “I-it was...a misunderstanding. I was returning home from studying in Cyrodiil, but the borders had already been closed due to our...your...uprising...so I snuck in.”   
“Tried to,” Ulfric corrected. Tharya opened her mouth to protest but he went on without a care. “So, the legendary Dragonborn has come to fight for me. You honor me.” She fidgeted nervously. She had only planned on introducing herself as someone from Helgen, not the Dragonborn...but he had already known.   
“Yes, my lord, but I would prefer...prefer if it was not made...public knowledge.”   
  
That didn’t seem to please him. Ulfric Stormcloak, was, after all, the truest Nord by his own accounts, the staunchest defender, the manliest man. Deception and lying and concealment of the truth, those were all things bound for lesser people, lesser beings; subterfuge held no honor.    
“I would prefer if I was not referred to as  _ the Dragonborn _ while in your service,” she amended. “Not in an effort to conceal my identity but...”  _ but that’s exactly what I want. _ “But to not receive special treatment.”

From behind, Galmar crowed, “She wishes to present herself as a true daughter of Skyrim.” He reached out to slap one hand heartily against her back, thumping her ribcage so loud it sounded hollow. “And not as its savior. Admirable, I say. We need more people with your heart.” Ulfric, though, hardly looked convinced. From the moment she had spoken he had unearthed her true intentions and now he held them dangerously over her. Regardless he nodded politely and made another vague gesture with his hand.   
“So it shall be. There will have to be room for both of us when it comes to guiding Skyrim to her new harbors,” he said with a dangerous glint in his eye.  _ Make some room on the podium, little woman, or be taken off it. _ She felt every unsaid word in her gut. “What humble name have the gods given you then, Dragonborn?” She exhaled quietly.   
“Tharya, my lord,” came the response. “And this is my brother Jorstus.” A calculating nod.    
“Very well. Before you leave, I will extend to you the same courtesy I have extended to your predecessors. You may ask me one question, whatever you desire, and I will answer to the best of my ability.”

What?   
  
For the first time since they’d entered the Palace of the Kings Jorstus looked at her, his brows momentarily tying together in an uneasy knot. One question?  _ What did you have for breakfast? When’s the last time you passed gas? How many sweet rolls can you eat in under a minute? _ Of course everything she thought of was ridiculous and unworthy of Ulfric’s time. Unworthy of the single chance they would get to know him. And then suddenly, without even thinking, she looked at the Jarl and said:   
  
“Why do you fight?”

Ulfric stopped just then, stopped everything. He sat like a statue on his throne, cradling his chin lightly in his fingers. Tharya took the chance to examine him; he was probably older than her parents, who were only nineteen when Freana, the oldest, was born. His hair was a dusty blond, but grey at the temples to accompany the deep set lines of his hard, squarish face. Unlike most Nord men who sported beards his cheeks remained smooth, with a goatee that framed his lips, greying at the corners of his mouth. His hair was just about as long as hers, reaching his shoulders, with a braid on each side that no doubt wound around his head to join in the back. His nose was broad. He was a man, and if she had been born today that was all he would be. But looking at him now, looking at Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm, the Bear of Markarth...   
  
He was so much more, and she couldn’t determine if that was good or not.

“Why do I fight?” He said finally, nodding, standing from the throne but not descending. “A philosophical question, Dragonborn.” Philosophical didn’t seem like the right word for it. “I fight for...the men I’ve held in my arms, dying on foreign, enemy soil.” He nodded slowly as he spoke. “I fight for their wives, children, their families, their names whispered in their last breaths in place of prayers to the gods.” A wave of sudden anger rolled off him, making her nose tingle. Gradually Ulfric took the steps down from his throne, raising one hand in a clenched fist as he continued. “I fight for we few, we blessed, who  _ did _ return home, only to find our country full of  **strangers** wearing familiar faces!” He wasn’t shouting, but his voice had risen mightily, strong and carrying throughout the entire main hall. “I fight for my people! Impoverished to pay the debts of a frail Empire too weak to rule them, and yet brands them as anarchists, as criminals, for wanting to rule themselves!” He was standing just in front of them now, a vein protruding tightly in the center of his forehead. “I fight so that all the fighting I’ve already done  _ hasn’t been for nothing! _ I fight...”   
  
Ulfric sucked in a deep, calming breath, lowering his hand, closing his eyes.   
  
“...because I must.”

He held her eyes in a steady stare, folding his arms behind his back again and nodding once.   
“Does that answer your question, Tharya?” And she, too dumbstruck to say much, merely nodded back.   
“Yes, my lord.”   
Apparently invigorated by the speech, Galmar clapped his hand on her shoulder again, this time also reaching for Jorstus and giving them both a hearty shake.   
“Your words give voice to what we all feel, Ulfric,” the man said toughly. “And that is why you will be High King. But the day words are enough...that will be the day when soldiers like us are no longer needed.” Without tearing his gaze away, Ulfric Stormcloak narrowed his eyes slowly on the Last Dragonborn.   
  
“I would gladly retire from the world,” he said softly to her, “were such a day to dawn.”

* * *

“ _ Your day has come, Ulfric. Retire from the world...or I will put you out of it. _ ”   
  
The words startled Bhijirio out of his haze, the soothing kind of dream state Tharya’s storytelling had induced while he listened. But this voice was not Tharya’s. It was Miraak who had spoken all of a sudden, standing by the fire with his arms crossed snugly over his chest, his hood up and eyes staring directly into the flames. With a groan the Khajiit straightened his back, stretched his arms and twisted around to hear his vertebrae crack.

“That is what you said to him in Solitude,” Miraak looked to Tharya now, who nodded at him. Just as abruptly as he had spoken the Dragon Priest strode around the fire and off into the night, his face curled in deep thought. Bhijirio waited until the other man was well out of range, nearly swallowed up by the night, before looking to the Last Dragonborn.   
“What’s up his ass?”   
“I’m not sure,” she hummed carefully, as if she totally missed the joking tone to the Khajiit’s words. “He’s probably going to meditate somewhere.”   
He snorted, “Maybe he’s just going to rub one out.”   
“I think he’s putting pieces together,” Tharya said, standing and finally tearing her eyes away from the path her lover had taken away from their tiny camp. “Pieces in a puzzle he’s left alone for too long.”  _ Typical cryptic Dragonborn shit. _ As much as he loved them, Bhijirio hated the times when they both went off on their philosophical streak. Whatever puzzle Miraak was doing, he was sure it wasn’t one of the fun wooden ones that the rest of the normal folk of the world did. For a moment the hardness of Tharya’s eyes took over as she poked at the fire, the soldier’s, the burdened hero’s hardness and exhaustion, but as she straightened out again it was gone. Damn. She and Miraak really were made for each other, sometimes.   
  
“It’ll be cold tonight, so I’ll get some more firewood in a minute,” she shifted onto her toes to stretch. “You guys get some rest, I’ll take a watch.”    
“Are you sure, Sunshine? Every time you say that you don’t wake us up to take over,” Bhijirio frowned. “Why don’t I take one? Do we even need a watch? It’s just the middle of the woods.”   
Tharya hesitated before shrugging, examining the small area closely before replying, “I suppose not. Just a force of habit.” Habit from what? Being a soldier? Gods, they were only a hundred or so feet from the road, and since Ivarstead Bhijirio hadn’t seen a single traveler besides themselves. He didn’t know why, but irritation curled in his gut. Maybe he was just tired. He hadn’t slept much the night before, and somehow Tharya’s story had put him in a rather foul mood. He guessed she could probably tell.   
  
“I’m sorry,” the woman said suddenly, confirming his suspicions.    
“About what?”   
“I don’t know. You look upset,” she gripped her hands tightly, “I felt like I should apologize.” And just like that, the soldier version of Tharya was gone. In her place was...something else that Bhijirio had yet to name. “So I’m sorry.”   
“Oh, you didn’t do anything, Sunshine,” he said calmly. “I’m just...you know when you get pissed for no reason?” Her features fell but she nodded and forced out a smile.   
“Have you seen my traveling companion? He’s the king of being pissed for no reason.” The Khajiit snickered.   
“I think I’m just tired, so I’ll hit the hay for a bit. Don’t bother taking a watch, you hear?” He aimed a finger at her. “It’s just the woods. The road is fifty paces that way, we’ll be fine. And it’s damn cold, no one would be out anyway. Don’t you guys have a tent or something?”   
Tharya sighed quietly, “We, uh...lost it.”    
“I won’t even ask.”

She sat by herself beside the fire for a bit, doing nothing and looking at nothing in particular. Bhijirio fell asleep fairly quickly after situating his bedroll as close to the fire as he could without waking up in ashes, murmured a half-hearted goodnight and then was out like a light. It was stupid, but she wished she knew why he was upset. Was it because of Miraak striding off? But he always did that. Was it something she did? Was it something about the journey to Whiterun? Why was he pissed about taking watches? Tharya supposed he was right...there wasn’t much out here except wildlife, and there was no one else on the road. Besides, she’d wake up if she smelled someone, or something, approaching. A bitter wind drifted through the trees, picking up speed as it raced through the small clearing and whipping briefly at her hair and ruana. It was stupid, but she wished Miraak would return. It was stupid, but she wanted his warmth.    
  
The wind more or less disappeared after that, but it left an undeniable chill in the air. She decided to combat it by going into the woods for more firewood, trying to steer clear of wherever the First Dragonborn had gone—she distinctly remembered him veering off to the left—to leave him to his meditation. Taking two armfuls and then some, by the time she trekked back to their little camp her toes were numb but her body was sweating under her ruana. It was a death wish to take it off, though. Anyone who had fought in the Civil War would know that. Dumping the sticks and branches she’d found, she fed the fire a few more before taking a step back, and then turning to find her way through the darkness towards the horses.   
  
Flindbrir was the first to notice her, digging one hoof into the hard ground as she approached. Just like his Atmoran master, the huge stallion was beyond wary of anyone whose face he didn’t recognize. If she recalled correctly his name was tied to Atmoran mythology, but she’d forgotten exactly how. With one hand Tharya lit a magelight that hovered dutifully by her head while she walked.    
“Hey, Flindy,” she said softly, reaching out to pat the chestnut horse’s striped nose. He tossed his head and then butted her palm with a huff of acknowledgement. Sliding around her arm he nudged his nose against her torso incessantly. Unlike his master, he was intensely addicted to treats. “Sorry, big boy, I didn’t bring anything,” she chuckled, patting his neck. On Flindbrir’s right, Knight was hopping to his feet—hooves? Legs?—to greet her with a quiet, pleased whinny. “No, no treats,” she repeated to her steed, moving over to hug his neck warmly. Knight had carried her through years of hardship and strife and for quite some time...had been her only friend. And then there was  _ Petunia. _ Bhijirio’s white and effortlessly loyal mare that had apparently been the steed of the Emperor’s cousin’s aunt’s stepson’s ex-wife’s brother, and had been won over in a gambling match. She wouldn’t know why  _ Petunia _ , of all names, but Petunia it was. 

Somewhere further into the woods, leaves crunched, twigs snapped. Tharya slowly straightened out, listening; it came again. Heavy footsteps. Knight shifted on his hooves, growing closer. Her fingers brushed the cold Dwemer metal of her bow and then instinctively wrapped around it. Unhooked it from the saddle. A Bound arrow flicked into existence in her opposite hand as the footsteps drew closer, closer. She could feel the faint vibrations through the frozen ground now, the tramping of feet growing closer.  _ So much for not taking watches, Bhiji _ . Tharya snapped the arrow into place and swiveled around-   
  
“ _ Achté! _ Don’t shoot me,” Miraak jumped away from her, surprised, lifting both hands as if he could deflect an arrow.    
“Good gods. You walk like an elephant, and I’ve never even seen an elephant,” she sighed, the arrow dissipating as she eased the bowstring down.    
“They are very large and very loud,” he replied, raising an eyebrow.   
“So like you.”   
  
The First Dragonborn rolled his eyes as he stepped around her, extracting a shiny apple from gods knew where and gently taking Flindrid’s jaw in one hand, murmuring in Atmoran to the animal as it loudly crunched the fruit from his gloved palm.   
“Did you steal that from my bag?” Tharya peered at Miraak through the moonless night.   
“Of course not,” he replied in a sly voice.   
“Bastard.” She concerned herself with reattaching her bow to her saddle, stroking Knight’s neck before stepping away, lingering on the edge of darkness and watching the fire dance a handful of meters away. Bhijirio’s form was just little more than a lump in the shadows of the flames. After a moment Miraak joined her, one hand landing on her lower back. “How was your meditation?” All she got in reply was a low sigh. “Bad?”   
“Fruitless.”   
“That’s just another word for bad.”   
“I could not clear my mind enough,” he said. “I kept thinking of you.”   
  
Tharya turned towards him at that, eyes widening.   
“What?”   
“I kept thinking of you,” the Priest repeated, looking at her and then turning to face her as well. Without a second thought he reached out to touch her face, brushing his thumb along the ridge of her cheekbone. “You,” Miraak whispered, now cradling her face in both palms, “are a beautiful enigma of a woman.” She swallowed, gently curling her fingers around his wrists.   
“What do you mean?”   
“I would like you to keep telling me of your past,” he went on, softly, “later. Tomorrow. I want to hear everything you will tell me. I thought I knew all there was to know about you but I...I have hardly scratched the surface.”   
  


He bent to kiss her, sliding both arms snugly around her waist. It occurred to her that he was probably right. So much had happened in her life and he only knew bits and pieces, breadcrumbs she unwittingly dropped along the way.  _ I think he’s trying to connect the pieces. _ In a way...he was discovering her all over again.   
  
“Okay,” Tharya said quietly, nodding, curling her hands into the thick material of his coat. But what if? What if he was revolted by the things she’d done? The things that had happened to her? What if he was so shocked he couldn’t...didn’t want to even be around her anymore? What if he didn’t like what he heard, didn’t like what he put together? What would it take to completely push him away? 

What would it take for Miraak Althëasson to cave?   
  
She swallowed again, gripping the fabric, gripping him, a little tighter. “Okay.”


	17. XIII. Dog Days Are Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, there is sexy stuff in revenant :^) (not smut unfortunately, just sexy stuff)

**Morndas, 1st of Sun’s Dusk, Greenfield, Falkreath Hold, 4E 207**

Miraak waking up before her was utterly rare and unheard of; this would be perhaps the second time in all their four years together. Sometimes he vowed to try to do it more often, but it never came to pass. Even so, he enjoyed it. Sitting in silence had never been hard for him, but there was something different, softer, about early morning quiet while the world slept. While his world slept, at least. Tharya was many things, but truly calm was hardly ever one of them. Though she was calm _ ing _ , rarely was her inner self half as soothed as she pretended it was. It was a trait they shared.

Yet here, she was calm. In sleep there was nothing for her to worry about--unless Vaermina paid a visit. In sleep no one needed anything of her. In sleep she didn't have to worry about a next meal, or the journey ahead, or saving the world a fourth or fifth time. In sleep, he could admire her to his heart's content and for once she wouldn't push his gaze away. Maybe it was wrong to steal his moments of beholding her while she slept but...in sleep she looked and felt so utterly beautiful that it was impossible not to.

Lying on her belly just beside him, where he had propped himself up on one arm and stretched out as much as he could on this ridiculously small bed, Miraak liked to think he acted as something of a shield against the waiting world outside. Tharya slept beside him out of love, sure, but for warmth, for protection. At least that's what he told himself. Sleeping was not something she took lightly, and being able to do so enveloped in the total trust of someone's arms was a blessing indeed. Gods damn the day he ever stopped being a shield.   
  
In the dim morning light, as snow fell outside—just as Tharya had predicted the day before while they trekked along the road to get to this little hamlet of Greenfield, halfway between Ivarstead and Helgen—he watched her slumber peacefully, watched the slow rise of her back and her ribs press to her sides before gently deflating. And he, with as light a touch as he could summon, traced the dip of her spine, wrote in languages she would never know across her skin, moulded his palm to her frame to smooth it over her body, rubbing away the aches of yesterday and all the days before. It was always a gamble considering how light a sleeper she was, how light of a sleeper she had grown to be, but he loved the feel of her skin under his hand too much to pass it up. That and the contrast of their complexions, the smallness of her body, the lean muscle lurking under soft skin. His fingers dipped under the band of thick fabric that she bound her chest with, three little metal clasps holding it together on her back. He could count on one hand the number of times she’d ever allowed him to take it off.   
  
Maybe that was it. Selfishly, he loved waking up before her so he could acquaint himself with all pieces of her he usually couldn’t.    
  
With that thought in mind he bowed his head, lips finding the light constellation of freckles over her slim shoulders, slowly mouthing, kissing over every inch of untouched skin. Outside the wind picked up and moaned against the inn, but the sound that reached his ears was a muted version of a soft voice saying his name. Below him Tharya shifted with grace, moving onto her side; he adapted easily, lips skirting to the base of her neck, sliding one arm around her naked midriff to feel her belly, her hip, to run his hand over her thigh and then slot her pelvis back against his.    
“Miraak,” she whispered again, in that deliciously soft, vulnerable voice. He couldn’t even begin to piece together a reply. He was lost. Utilizing the arm that rested below her neck he extended his forefinger to perch under her chin and tilt her head upwards, straightening from the hunched, contorted figure he’d made of himself to curl over her head and finally capture her lips. 

In the moment he felt her mouth open willingly for him his palm slid down to wrap around her throat. He felt Tharya seize beside him but shushed her lightly, rubbing his thumb against the line of her jaw. He knew it was a risk, holding her like this, but...as of late, he found himself more willing to press boundaries.

"I won't hurt you," he crooned in a gentle voice against her ear. Just below his fingers, now gently stroking her windpipe, was the vessel of her Thu’um. Air was the sacred conductor of his Voice, of hers too, and he had no right to impede it. But the image of his hand there..."Tell me if it is uncomfortable." She inhaled slowly, testing the tightness of his grip. It was...light. He wasn't holding her, his hand was merely resting there, like a warm cloth. There was weight to it, but nothing restricting about it. 

"N-no, I was just..." Tharya trailed away, cautiously wrapping her fingers around the girth of his wrist. With a pleased rumble in his chest he kissed her again, still caressing her throat and pressing his tongue past her lips. Slowly the Last Dragonborn seemed to gain more consciousness, more awareness of the lack of space between them, and he felt her legs wrap around one of his, pulling it between her thighs.   
  
There was no stopping the low groan that left his throat.   
  
_ Miraak, stop it, you’re getting carried away. _   
  
Those words assaulted him so roughly he almost felt a physical strain pull him away from the woman in his arms, the woman tangled with his limbs. It was not that the thought was a new one, he had conjured it up many times before, but each surfacing was just as offending as the last. After a brief moment he let his eyes flutter open and looked down at her, her lips pink and wet and parted, her face flushed even in the ghastly dim moonlight that penetrated the room through the pair of windows across the floor. His gut stirred and thighs clenched, and before he could even think of the repercussions of such an act, a soothed sound of pleasure left her mouth.   
  
_ Carried away. Don’t get carried away. _   
  
The First Dragonborn let out a sigh he hadn’t known he was holding in, but it relieved the tightness in his lungs. Tharya was watching him but not half as alert as she usually was, her eyelids heavy and face loosely calm.  _ Calmness in conscious? _ His eyes flicked to the sight of his hand resting around her throat and he sunk his teeth into his tongue. 

_ Don’t get carried away. _   
  
“You’re awake,” he spoke finally, his voice hoarse but unintentionally louder than before, letting his wrist go lax and his fingers fall away from her neck. She moved her hands to gently cradle palm.   
“So are you,” she smiled at him just then, a loving and kind smile, a goddess’s smile, a smile he wasn’t entirely sure he deserved. _ He’d gotten carried away. _ The bed felt like too tight a space to breathe. Wordlessly Miraak tried to remove himself from her, reclaiming his thigh—much to his own displeasure—and letting himself lay somewhat spread-eagle on the bed, shoulders hitting the pillow with a quiet huff of fabric.    
  
After a moment Tharya sat up and put both hands on his chest, feeling the flushed warmth of her lover’s skin beneath her cool palms. His heart was beating abnormally fast. Miraak’s heart rate was strange in a few ways; it slowed significantly during sleep, more so than hers, and it took a lot to rile him up. She wouldn’t pretend to not know why exactly his body was reacting like it was, but at least she would spare him the pain of commenting on it. In the dark she inhaled slowly, discreetly, letting the Atmoran’s scent fill her nose—fresh ice, old books, now with the unmistakably honey sweet overtone of physicality. She wouldn’t say anything about that, either.   
  
Just when she opened her mouth to say something, the door on the opposite wall rattled. Miraak’s chest expanded as he sucked in a breath and they both trained their eyes on the door in question. She curled her fingers in anticipation and readied them to find her spear when a voice filtered through the wood.   
“Gods, Runa, girlie, you have to get up.” The door rattled again. Runa? Tharya remembered seeing her settle down in front of the door to sleep, a habit of hers. “Come on, pretty please?” Another attempt to enter. With a disgruntled noise the sabre cat stretched her front legs out, raised herself on her hind legs, and arched her back, tail flicking.   
“Bhijirio,” Miraak sighed, his voice sounding strained. The honey was beginning to fade, but under her palm his thudding heart remained. Sure enough, the door opened a crack, and then some more, Runa growling in a displeased way as it pushed her aside.   
“I’m  _ sorry _ pretty girl, but you gotta let me back in,” the Khajiit whispered to her as he slipped by, shut and locked the door again. “I don’t want to wake up the sleeping beauties.”   
  
She couldn’t help the giggle that left her, making Bhijirio jolt back against the wood and curse.   
“Sunshine, you have no idea how creepy that was,” he moaned, “are you both up?”   
“ _ Geh _ ,” Miraak replied.   
“What for? Actually, I don’t want to know. Can I come sit with you?” Tharya looked down at the First Dragonborn, his eyes like dying embers in the darkness.   
“Sure. You can put your head in my lap, big guy,” she patted Miraak’s chest. The Atmoran was slow to sit up, but she took his silence as compliance, taking the pillow out from under his head and wiggling her way behind him, holding the back of his neck in both hands. The bed dipped as Bhijirio sat next to them, and a lone purr filled the room as Runa settled back in her spot in front of the door and rested her chin on her paws.   
  
Miraak pulled both her legs flat over his shoulders and then turned his head away from the Khajiit, burying it against her thigh and hip while he slipped an arm around the corresponding knee. Tharya paused and let him do what he wanted, a little surprised but nonetheless accepting. Bhijirio snorted lightly as he laid down, the bed frame creaking dangerously under their combined weight.   
“You slept like that?”   
“No way,” she laughed, threading her fingers into Miraak’s hair, “he’s just tired.”   
“Aw, poor wittle ba-by,” Bhijirio cooed, reaching out to ruffle the other man’s already bedridden hair. After a moment of pleasant silence he looked up at her, folding his hands on his belly. “You know, Sunshine, I’d be glad to hear more about this whole Civil War trip of yours.” Tharya nodded in understanding. It was past dawn but not quite morning, with dim, grey light slowly joining the disappearing moon through the swaying trees.    
  
“War stories, then?” She shrugged, watching the snow fall sideways on the harsh wind outside. “War stories it is.”

* * *

**_QUEST STARTED: THE JAGGED CROWN_ **

* * *

**Middas, 18th of Last Seed**

**I didn’t expect to be on the road again so soon, but not long after Jorstus and I were given our uniforms, Ulfric sent us out on an assignment with Galmar. He, of course, didn’t like the idea of bringing two newbies with him, but told Ulfric “it wouldn’t be his fault if we didn’t come back alive.” So charming.** **  
** **  
** **My uniform is a little big, but that doesn’t surprise me much because Ulfric seems like the “male soldiers only” kind of traditional guy. I’m the only woman in Galmar’s party. Even so I found a way to tie my sash around and knot it so it fits a little better. My only other complaint is that these gauntlets are way too heavy. I tried asking to keep my own but the guy just shoved these on me. I can’t cast with two bricks lying on my wrists! And using my staff with the same kind of fluidity as before is damn near impossible. I guess Ulfric didn’t want to account for mages, either.** **  
** **  
** **Jorstus advised me against writing the specifics of our missions, I guess in case we get captured by Imperials and they take my journal. (The other guys call it a** **_diary_ ** **and I am so fed up with them) Just in case, I’ve drawn out a rune on the cover with my whittling knife. All I need to do is activate it and you, trusty little book, will go up in flames.** **  
** **  
** **Currently we’re on the hunt for something called** **_the Jagged Crown._ ** **I have no idea what that is, but it sounds kinda badass. There’s a poem, or mantra or whatever, that Ralof told me about the other day:**

**_Maw unleashing razor snow / of dragons from the blue brought down / births the walking winter’s woe / the High King in his Jagged Crown_ **

**And yes, Ralof! I was so glad to see him again. It’s been a year, give or take, since we escaped Helgen together, and I honestly never thought we would see each other again. So far he’s the only man who hasn’t looked at me like I’m a piece of dessert or a total nimrod. He looks good, and said he’d rejoined the war after a week or two of rest in Riverwood. Fancied himself a vacation, I bet. Me too.**

“Up, up,” it was Galmar tramping through camp, kicking at people’s feet and pulling them up off the ground from where they dozed. “Up you go, ladies.” That would be the fifth time he used  _ ladies _ as an insult. She scrawled another tickmark in her journal before closing it. Tharya quickly tucked the journal away and shook Jorstus, who had been napping beside her, awake, and they were both on their feet before the grouchy man in bear skin had reached them. When he did, he eyed them both, and then gestured vaguely westward. “The scouts are returning.” Ah, yes. The scouting party she had volunteered to be a part of, and had been swiftly barred from. “On your feet! Ready to move!” Galmar barked to the camp. Tharya watched as the other soldiers—there were ten of them still here, and with the two scouts and Galmar that made thirteen total—sluggishly got to their feet, some of them complaining. Ralof was fitting his shield to his arm as he approached her, surveying the camp with a trained eye.   
  
“Word of advice,” he grinned at her, “don’t try to butter Galmar up.”   
“What? I wasn’t,” she shared a look with Jorstus, who pretended to be busy with fastening his shield as well. “He was getting people up, so I got up.” Ralof only let out a short laugh, and then bunted his shield against her brother’s.   
“Talos preserve you both. Good fighting,” he smiled.   
“Good fighting,” Jorstus replied before she could say anything. “I thought you knew him?”   
“Well,” Tharya shrugged lightly, “I did, at some point.” She reached down to retrieve her bow from the ground; they were far enough north and close enough to the mountains that nothing ever thawed completely. The earth beneath their feet was stiff and rocky, and sounded hollow when tread upon.    
  
As she plucked experimentally at her bowstring and made sure her staff was fastened to her back, Tharya gauged the camp and its occupants carefully. The atmosphere had shifted considerably from a few moments ago. Now the air thrummed with excitement, the kind of pre-battle nerves and adrenaline she felt whenever a dragon first came into view over the mountaintops or down from the clouds. And yet...different. These men, they were  _ anticipating _ a battle. They  _ wanted _ one. Who would actively want to fight? History was riddled with leaders reluctant to go to war, and stories always spoke of soldiers broken, mind and soul, after returning from battle. Weren’t wars fought to  _ end _ themselves?

_Come on now, that’s naive of you,_ she scolded herself in the back of her mind. _Wars are fought because people can never agree or never have enough or so-and-so slept with my wife and now I’m going to cut his balls off._   
  
“No quiver, little lady?” Abruptly she realized one of the men was talking to her, one with a thick beard and ruddy brown hair. “Don’t you know you need arrows with that bow?”  
“My name’s Tharya,” she corrected him politely, “and I don’t need a quiver, I have magic.”  
“Magic?” He made a show of spitting on the ground between their feet. “Don’t bring your foul arts ‘round me, little lady.”  
“Tharya,” she said again, holding his gaze. After another moment he spit again and then tramped off to a loose group of men lingering around together. She heard the words _bow_ and _magic_ and, most clearly:  
  
“Shame she’s one of those tightass mages, or I’d love to take a turn...”  
  
Suddenly Jorstus grabbed her hand tightly, squeezing it in his own.  
“I won’t,” she assured him, though her fingers were trembling, something they hadn’t done since her last real drink, “I can’t do anything to change willful ignorance.”  
“No, that was for me,” he smiled tightly, “I wouldn’t have joined if I knew they were all sexist bastards.”  
  
That should’ve been their first sign.  
  
Galmar roused them all again and they started towards their destination in a slow, loose knot. Korvanjund was the name of their end goal, an ancient Nordic barrow about seventy miles east of Windhelm. By her estimate they were leaving around ten in the morning, with five miles still to walk to Korvanjund. Within two miles men started arranging themselves into a tighter formation. Archers in the back, shields in front, heavy weapons in the middle. The only other man with a bow was Ralof, who carried a half-empty quiver and longbow on his back. She made sure to keep an eye on Jorstus through the shoulders and helmets of the others, watching him walk steadily forwards with one hand sitting on the hilt of his sword. He was a good fighter and always had been; their father had trained him, and Jorstus, like herself, was a member of the Companions. He’d be fine.

Suddenly they came to a stop. Galmar was hissing orders to the men in the front, and then trudging by the others towards her and Ralof.   
“Take up your positions at the corners of the barrow entrance,” he made a gesture to the ground. So, Korvanjund was dug into the ground? “We charge the Imperials from one side. You cover the terrace around the place and shoot anyone trying to come up the other side.”   
“Why wouldn’t you send us in first?” Tharya raised an eyebrow. “We can take down as many soldiers as possible. Start on the fringes, and work our way in. Once they notice they’re being shot to hell, you guys charge them and-”   
“Unblooded,” Galmar said roughly, reaching out to grab her collar, “are you talking back to your commanding officer?”   
“No,” she replied, “sir. I’m just suggesting a way to utilize your archers to full extent. I’ve been to barrows like this before, sir, and I-”   
“ _ Unblooded, _ ” he let go of her shoulder but his jaw clicked as he did, “when I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.” Galmar looked to Ralof. “Get into position.”   
“Yes, sir.”   
  
Without a second thought he grabbed Tharya by the wrist and brought her away.   
“You really can’t do that,” he lectured in a quiet, but no less stern voice. “Especially not to Galmar. Alright?”    
“His plan sucks,” she replied, maybe a little too loudly. Ralof groaned.    
“Just do what he says.” The man let go of her and they broke apart, very aware all eyes were following them as the others drew closer. They stopped a healthy distance from the stairs though. Squinting down into Korvanjund, she saw exactly what she expected from a Nord barrow: tight and worn stone staircases that bent suddenly at right angles, with small landings, no handrails, and practically nowhere to fight. Easy to slip on. The Stormcloaks would either be picked off by archers waiting below, or be forced down into the crypt’s entrance and then be slaughtered by waiting Imperials.

_ Now, if only Galmar had let me finish talking about Ancient Nord architecture, he would know all this. _   
  


She watched as Ralof crept slowly around the perimeter of Korvanjund. Since it was built underground with this corridor-like entrance, there was a path of stone surrounding the top with occasional boxy stone arches; probably where the guards had once patrolled this place, or where they would be if there were any. A pair of Imperials roamed this path, walking on opposite sides of each other, both with swords at their hip. If she could take them both down...

Someone from the main group was signaling her. It was Jorstus. He gestured towards the barrow and then gave her a thumbs up. Reluctantly, Tharya nodded. At the very least she’d done what Galmar told her to. If this was how the whole war would be, she needed to seriously rethink her life choices.

That should’ve been their second sign.

Slowly, Jorstus and the others crept towards the staircase. It wasn’t very wide. One of them would have to go down at a time. She shifted forward, trying to keep in the shadows cast by the high sun. It was still morning, and the western shadows were long, but her position was vulnerable. She was hiding by one of the stone arches on the guard path, but it wouldn’t be long now until said guard returned and found her. They would have to move quickly.   
  
Just as an arrow, ethereal and white, materialized in her fingers and she notched it against her bow, Galmar and the others let out a collective roar and then plunged towards the stairs.  _ Now! _ Jumping out from behind the arch she easily found the Imperial on watch, just ten feet away. He was just turning to see what the commotion was—and her arrow buried itself into his back. Standing now, she swiveled to survey the opposite side of the path, where Ralof was. He was focused on taking down people  _ inside _ the barrow entrance, crouched near a slumped body and taking arrows from his quiver beside him.  _ Good. _ A rush of blood flew to her head as she looked downwards now, slinking behind the arch again and then reappearing on its opposite side. The Stormcloaks had made it down the stairs, though she couldn’t believe they had done so without slips and tumbles. Already two men were bleeding on the ground.   
  
It was damn near impossible to find a target in the skirmish below without risking hitting another Stormcloak. So she turned to the right, looking for latecomers, people across the camp who were rolling out of bedrolls and scrambling for weapons.  _ One. Loose. Two. Loose. _ Who else, who else?  _ Three. _ She stood again, circled slowly back around the arch. The naked clang of metal on metal and the earthy thud of wooden shields filled the morning stillness, making the sun feel bitter and cold even at the height of summer. Where?  _ Four. _ But there were too many people moving now, too many fights dancing around one another below. She found Jorstus and kept track of him, one arrow poised to fend off her brother’s attackers from above. Galmar brushed by him, sword bloody, and stomped towards the huge doors that led into the barrow.    
  
Just like that, it was over.   
  
The last Imperial dropped dead as she and Ralof regrouped at the mouth of the stairs, slowly descending in single-file. Tharya watched the smooth stone beneath her boots.   
“You don’t have a quiver, so there’s no telling how many you got, but good job, Unblooded,” he chortled, reaching out to pat her back.   
She peered at him curiously before frowning. “You know my name, Ralof, please use it.” Thank the Divines Ralof seemed to have more of a brain than most of her kinsmen, because he simply stared at her and then nodded.   
“Well, there’s your first little taste,” he laughed as they reached the bottom of the stairs.    
  
Korvanjund, unlike most of its counterparts, seemed to be built completely underground. Though there was the large corridor-like space carved into the ground, with high stone walls on either side, she wondered how exactly the Ancient Nords had built a crypt entirely below ground. The ground was now soft with fresh blood, sending up an odor that got more rotten by the second. Though most of these kills were rather clean, simply wounds, the stench of death would not grow any weaker because of it. Death was death. Violence only saturated it.    
“Listen up!” Galmar barked from in front of the doors. Slowly the unit drew around him in a loose circle. “It’s no coincidence the Imperials are already here. Chances are they know the Crown is inside,” he gestured vaguely behind him. “So it’s our job now to not only retrieve, but make sure not a damn one of those faithless dogs gets out alive. Understood?”   
“Aye!”   
“Good. Now let’s get these doors open.”

* * *

“So...the Stormcloaks were all idiots, but you joined them anyway?”   
  
Tharya hadn’t even realized she had created a natural lull in her storytelling until Bhijirio filled it. She’d been lost in her own world of memories, seemingly thinking about the entire war all at once while she recited it to him and Miraak. She blinked a few times, dragging her fingers along Miraak’s scalp.

  
“Well, yeah, I guess so,” she shrugged one shoulder from where she sat. “I remembered once, after the Great War, when I was a girl...the Thalmor had come into Whiterun one day. We were all so scared, and we all thought the Jarl was going to be hauled away or something. But they didn’t really talk to anyone, didn’t say anything. They had a team of workers with them, and within the afternoon, they had pulled down the statue of Talos near the Gildergreen, and destroyed his shrine.” Another shrug. “There was a huge protest about it. People were hurt. Danica was the first one to speak up and they burned down the Temple of Kynareth for it. And then the Thalmor demanded the Jarl let them stay—it was spring, and everyone said there was a huge storm brewing. Well, they stayed a couple days as the storm came and went. People were so angry. I remember my mother saying the storm being a sign from the Divines, who were angry at  _ us _ for pulling Talos’s statue down.

“There were more protests. People started demanding the Jarl kick the Thalmor out, or some even said to imprison them. But a lot of people wanted them gone. Or dead. Finally they left. But, on their way out...they destroyed the Gildergreen. Burnt it, with magic, and we couldn’t do anything to save it.”   
  
Slowly, Miraak shifted, opening one eye to look up at her.   
“Your parents told me it had been struck by lightning,” he said quietly.   
“It was,” she replied, “Thalmor lightning. Ever since then I’ve always hated the Thalmor. Not the elves—my parents made sure to raise us so we respected everyone, and so we would always differentiate  _ elves _ from  _ Thalmor. _ That's how I became a soldier. That's why I joined the Civil War. I was desperate for a purpose," she nodded, "and rather than go seek one out, I chose the first one that came to me. Hating the Thalmor helped."

Miraak frowned to himself, flexing his hand around her thigh for a moment before letting go.

"Did you not even believe in Ulfric's cause, then?" He wondered.   
Bhijirio held one hand up, looking between them, “Wasn’t Ulfric’s cause getting  _ rid _ of the Thalmor?” A bitter laugh left Tharya’s lips, and she shook her head. 

"That was too complex for Ulfric. He just wanted all the elves gone. Not the Thalmor, the entire Mer race. I thought at first Ulfric was fighting the Aldmeri Dominion."

The Dragon Priest looked at her.

"And was he?"

"No," Tharya said gravely, "no, what Ulfric was doing was much worse."

  
  


**Korvanjund, 18th of Last Seed, 4E 202**

“Pick a man and put him down,” Galmar said. “We attack on my signal.”  
  
Like most Nord barrows she’d been in, or at least the sizeable ones, Korvanjund had a small antechamber just inside in the doors that led to a much bigger, wider, taller main room, with a wide arched ceiling of stone. Unsurprisingly there were more Imperials in here, set up in the second chamber around a fire. She counted four, and smelled two more. So there were about twenty Imperials total in Korvanjund. Soon to be twenty dead Imperials.  
  
The thought made her gut stir just enough to notice. She was killing these people. Was that right? Humane? _That’s war_ , she scolded herself, _war isn’t humane._ _If you want to worship your gods, and get rid of the Thalmor, you have to go to war._ So she readied her bow, another ethereal arrow appearing between her fingers as she drew the string taut. She saw Galmar out of the corner of her eye. The rest of them were going to charge in with their swords and shields, and she would be the only one staying back. He raised one bear-clad fist, and then, after a tense moment, let it drop.  
  
Tharya squinted, closing one eye and finding the man standing nearest the fire. Here it didn’t matter who she shot as long as she took someone down, and, as before, with the others fighting in the fray, it would be difficult to take aim at any of their enemies. As Galmar and the shields crossed her vision and once they had passed her, yelling, thoroughly alerting the Imperials to their presence, she let her arrow loose.  
  


The one by the fire fell with a cry, and then the rest of them fell upon the remaining four like a pack of wolves on a lone sheep. She closed her eyes to the slaughter.  _ That doesn’t make you innocent. _

When the last ring of a sword faded from her ears she stood from her crouched position and made her way across the chamber towards the others, examining the inside of the barrow but making sure not to dally. Korvanjund was bigger than she expected. How long had it taken to build this whole place? At the opposite wall Galmar was staring at her as she approached, arms crossed.   
“Unblooded,” he nodded to her and then Jorstus, and shoved a jerk of his chin over his shoulder at a pair of widely arched thresholds. The one on the right was caved in with rocks and dirt, but the one on the left had a torch lit and looked to lead deeper into the barrow. “You stay here and guard the entrance. We don’t want any Imperial reinforcements taking us by surprise.” A brief silence. “Well? You have something to say, Unblooded?” He was looking at her, but it was her brother who replied.   
  
“Respectfully, sir, my sister is an expert on Ancient Nord crypts like this,” Jorstus said, bowing his head once. “And on their puzzles and traps. I would suggest you take her with you, and leave someone else behind with me.” Tharya heard Galmar snort and then growl out:   
“How do you put your pants on in the morning, Unblooded?”   
“Sir?”   
“Over those big balls of yours.” A chorus of mangled laughter went up from the others. “Very well. We’ll take the  _ scholar _ with us,” Galmar proceeded to bow mockingly, gesturing towards the threshold. “After you,  _ my lady. _ ” Tharya felt her lip twist but quickly suppressed it, and brushed through the group, past Galmar without so much as a glance, and trotted down the steps to go deeper into the belly of the beast.

The man caught up to her and then pushed out a few paces ahead, unwilling to relinquish his control as the leader of their unit. The hallway grew darker the further in they went; the Imperials had done some exploring, but not much. It spat them onto a small terrace overlooking a room much like the first one, with an ancient wooden staircase leading down. On the floor below there were two pillars that reached up to the ceiling, with what was once a bridge between them. Now it was collapsed in the middle of the room, as well as the bridge that led from the terrace to the left pillar.    
“Hm,” Galmar peered out over the space thoughtfully before descending the creaky wooden steps. She followed. The rest of the Stormcloaks filed down after them, wandering about the cavern with mild interest. “I don’t like this.” Their leader positioned himself in front of a short hallway that led into another well-lit area. Tharya raised an eyebrow. “Perfect spot for an ambush. I bet you ten to one, they’re just waiting for us on the other side.”   
  
Curious to see if his words held any weight, she discreetly leaned into the stale air of the crypt and sniffed it, then inhaled deeply. Old books, old stone, old everything...and then humans, their scent wafting from the hallway even without a breeze to carry it. And beyond them...the faint but unmistakable smell of Draugr.   
“Well, Unblooded? Time to flex that brain of yours,” Galmar turned to look at her skeptically. “Find us another way around this.”   
“There may not be one,” she replied, turning in a slow circle to examine their surroundings. “The Ancient Nords weren’t-”   
“In that case, we’ll send you through first,” he cut her off, gesturing to the hallway. “Find us another way around.” Swallowing her next words, she merely nodded, and broke away from the group. Where in Shor’s name would there be another passage? Bigger barrows like this were often for people of importance, and while it was true they sometimes doubled as strongholds, there weren't always workarounds. Whoever was on the inside would be defending against the outside—exactly like the Imperials right now, simply waiting for them to come through.    
  
Regardless, her feet took her back through the chamber and up the worn wooden stairs. If there was any way to get by the Imperials unnoticed, it would be higher up.  _ If _ , she told herself.  _ If. _

There was a long hallway that branched off the terrace they had originally appeared on, snaking to the right around what seemed to be the entire chamber. It was unlit and the air was stale and dusty. Regardless she pushed on, hearing Galmar and the others talking amongst themselves below. Why was it just up to her? Should they not be working together? Whatever.  _ Look on the bright side; maybe this will be a chance to prove your worth. _ She hated that phrase,  _ proving your worth. _ She didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, and certainly she didn’t have to prove her  _ worth _ .    
  
Tharya was so enveloped in her thoughts that she almost missed the door on the right hand wall, concealed expertly by the shadows and seeming to blend with the stone. Her magelight clipped the edge of the iron, creating a minor disturbance in the monotone landscape around her, and once she was almost past it she stopped. The door was shut but not locked, and not barred from the other side. Thank the Divines. It opened at first with a screech and then swung outwards soundlessly, leading her up a few steps into a dark hallway. It hooked a sharp left and then went up another few steps, turned again with another few steps, and then spat her out onto a skinny stone bridge that dangled above what looked to be a large gathering room, with a ceiling that reached far above her, and ancient stone tables and chairs scattered about the bottom.   
  
_ Good thing we aren’t afraid of heights. _   
  
Slowly she dropped to her hands and knees and then her belly. The bridge was high, but the room was lower than the rest of the barrow, meaning there was a tall level on her left hand side with stairs leading downwards. And, she saw as she squinted through the darkness, there were Imperials waiting there quietly. Or, not so quietly.   
  
“Can you hear anything?”   
“No, but I know they’re out there. There’s no other way they can come into this gods-forsaken place.”   
“Hssst! Shut up back there. You’ll give us away.” So, Galmar was right. It didn’t surprise her much, but it did make her a bit irritated. Eventually she would have to realize she wasn’t working solo anymore; Galmar, the lifelong smoker in bear skins, was her superior. No, not her superior—her commanding officer. 

Lying there on her belly she tried to formulate a plan to alert the Stormcloaks on the other side; was she supposed to return to them, or pick a fight with the Imperials? Was there a way she could do both? A Shout, maybe, or a spell...she could fire off an arrow. Would Galmar get the message? Tharya inhaled quietly before pushing herself up onto her knees, still bent close to the bridge. It seemed like all the Imperials were gathered at the mouth of the hallway. If she could do something loud enough to get the others to barge in...   
  


Relaxing her shoulders back she drew in a slow, deep breath, feeling her lungs expand. She closed her eyes to center her mind on the single word. With Shouts she knew all three words to, this kind of preparation wasn’t necessary. But this one she knew only the first word, weak by itself. This brief meditative state seemed to help one or two-word Shouts in strength, when their last part was missing. Knitting each letter of the first word together in her core, she let it fly from her lips:

**_Zul!_ **

_ “Hey, bootlickers!” _ Her Thu’um erupted from her and flung itself erratically down towards the Imperials, its false words echoing all throughout the chamber. The Imperials jumped into action, making to attack hallway even without the Stormcloaks in it. Good. She didn’t manage to fire off any arrows before the others burst through, swords and axes swinging, hewing Imperial soldiers down in record time. She stood on the bridge just as the last man fell, and Galmar peered up at her.   
  
“I hope you weren’t calling  _ us _ bootlickers, Unblooded,” he called. She merely shrugged and ducked back through the narrow hallway that had led her onto the bridge, rejoining the Stormcloaks within a few minutes.   
“Good work,” Galmar said roughly as she came down the stairs. “I don’t think the Imperials got any further, so it should be smooth sailing from here on out.”   
“Except for the Draugr,” Tharya put in. He turned to her. “Every crypt has Draugr.”    
“Well,” he crossed his thick arms over his bearskin chest, “let’s hope we don’t wake them.”

* * *

“Can I skip the part in between? It was nothing fun,” she raised an eyebrow at Bhijirio who shrugged.   
“Just smelly Draugr, I assume?”   
“Just smelly Draugr,” Tharya confirmed. “Some guy nearly got his foot chopped off but, it happens.” In her lap, Miraak shifted, his head now lying more on her stomach, his brows knit together.   
“Do you truly not know what the Jagged Crown is?”   
“Well, now I do,” she shrugged, “but I didn’t then.” The Atmoran hummed softly.    
“And you held it in your own hands. That is very impressive,  _ elskavin. _ It was rumored to be lost for many decades.”    
She patted his forehead lightly with a smile, “Thank you, I like to think I do cool things sometimes. Okay, skipping ahead to us finding the Crown then...”

* * *

  
  
“Aha! The Hall of Stories,” Galmar crowed, hefting his battleaxe over his shoulder for the first time since they had entered the barrow. Tharya raised an eyebrow at him.   
“You know what this is?”   
“Of course, Unblooded,” he huffed, “you aren’t the only one with a brain here. Watch you don’t disturb the reliefs,” he turned to address the others, “these are the works of your ancestors, men.”   
“What do they depict?” Someone behind her asked. Tharya reached out to gently touch one of the decorated walls, tapping her staff gently against the floor and lighting a soft orb from the soul gem atop it. It lit the chamber nicely.    
“Usually stories of someone’s life,” Galmar replied, “is that right, Unblooded?”   
“Yes,” she squinted at the central figure of the carving. Not a Dragon Priest—it looked to be a lord or celebrated warrior of some kind. If there wasn’t a Priest here, that was good, but it meant there would likely be a Draugr Deathlord. Deathlords—and their much more frightening superior, Death Overlords—would be a trifle to handle. They could Shout, and usually had enchanted weapons. Discreetly she tried to sniff the air or even the floor. The scent of undead was overwhelming, and maybe, lingering beyond this hall...   
  
“Unblooded, here’s a puzzle door,” Galmar directed her attention to a huge iron door with rings centered around a round plaque with three evenly spaced holes in it. As he approached it his boots kicked against something heavy and metallic that scraped over the floor. “And here, it seems, is our key.” Tharya moved closer, her staff going dim.    
“What’s the combination on the palm of the claw?” She asked, standing in front of the door and shifting onto her toes to reach the outermost ring.    
“Fox first,” he read. She pressed in on the silver emblem on the ring, currently a dragon. With a grating moan, the ring began to move, turning to its left. The next emblem was a fox. Good. “Then...what is this, a butterfly?”   
“A moth,” she corrected. The second ring took two turns to get it to the moth. “And lastly?”   
“Dragon,” Galmar stepped to her side. The third ring was already on the dragon emblem. “Good work, Unblooded. What should we do with this?” He lifted the claw.   
“I would keep it for now. No telling if we’ll need it to get out of here,” she offered her hands and he gave the claw to her. The Nord nodded as the huge door groaned and shifted, and slowly drew downwards until it was nothing but a small bump in the floor. “Watch your step.”   
  
The puzzle door opened into a dank hallway, making her staff light up again. Here the scent of Draugr was old but no less pungent, making her nostrils flare and tingle. They turned into a spacious circular room, wide shafts of sunlight filtering down from a large grate high above them. What purpose would an opening in the ceiling serve this far down? Fresh air maybe? Grates like those were prone to snapping open and letting people fall through; was it a trap?   
  
Her thoughts were interrupted by the familiar groaning and cracking of coffin lids being shoved away. Tharya squinted into the dark room, her blood running cold at the sight. Evenly spaced on the circular walls were stone sarcophagi, all popping open like some kind of twisted jack-in-the-boxes. Each lid hit the floor with a grueling, definitive  _ thud. _ She watched each Draugr shamble out of their metal cases, eyes lighting into that hard blue glow. How many...? One, two...five...seven...nine, ten. Ten Draugr. She could feel a wight among them somewhere, its Thu’um and soul burning just the slightest bit brighter than all the rest.   
  
“Well, shit.”


	18. XIV. Way down We Go

**_Gods I need a drink._ **

The thought struck her with such ferocity it made her brain swim against her skull for a moment, rendered useless during the brief flash of numbness that followed. Where had that come from? A drink? She was in a barrow underground and she wanted...

Yes, she realized, as a shiver traced her spine. A drink. Her traitorous mouth craved the smooth burn of alcohol. But it had been so long...or not long at all. It was only Last Seed. By now there would be sweet wine in almost every hold and city, maybe except Windhelm and Winterhold. Too far north. But Solitude. Solitude had the best wines—spiced wine, Firebrand, Argonian Bloodwine. The name was off putting but the taste was divine. Her tongue felt heavy and chalky in her mouth, and when she swallowed it stung her throat.

A drink was not what she needed, no matter how much she wanted one.

Tharya swallowed the air around her, fresher and cleaner than the rest of the crypt thanks to the large opening in the ceiling above them. Her heart was beating faster than ever, sweat dappling her forehead. She lifted her staff to inspect it; it was of her own make, and she’d painted and enchanted the wood herself. It had resisted many a sharpened blade that should’ve cut through it easier than butter, but it remained vigilant. The Draugr Wight she’d felt earlier had brought its sword down on it twice, and Tharya had heard the staff creak but never did it give way.   
  
“Unblooded,” Galmar rasped, giving the dead soldier surrounded by the others a wide berth as he approached. “How do we get out of here?”  _ Figure it out yourself _ , she wanted to snap.  _ Can’t you do anything on your own? Where would you be if you’d left me to guard the entrance with my brother? _ That was the problem with everything. Always asking for, taking, requesting from her. And it never stopped.   
  
With a huff Tharya pulled herself onto her feet, rising from one of the stone cold coffin lids that was tossed onto the floor.   
“That gate,” she pointed her staff towards a wrought iron gate across the room. It probably led further into the barrow. At this point, she wanted the Jagged Crown and wanted to get out. Not even the Crown. She just wanted out. “Looks like there’s a pull chain.”  _ Idiot. _ Galmar turned to follow her staff and then nodded.    
“Very well. Let’s move on,” he announced.    
“What about Elgar?” Someone spoke up. “We can’t leave him here.” Ever the realist, the bearskin man replied:   
“Which of you would like to carry him?” She knew it was shitty to leave someone down here, but Galmar had a point; carrying him back with them would be quite a feat. And was this not a place for the dead anyway? Just as the others’s faces began to shift, just as they looked doubtfully at Elgar’s prone, bloody body, she cleared her throat.   
“Down here he might become a Draugr.” That was a complete lie, and she had no idea why she said it. Draugr were cursed men and women from the early ages, Merethic and First, Second Era beings whose souls were usually restless. She’d heard once that they were once servants of the Dragon Cult, but she had suspicions that the Ancient Nords had found a way to  _ make _ Draugr of their own once they settled in Skyrim. How else could one explain the sheer number of them in almost every barrow across the province?   
  
She didn’t know why she said it, but there was a petty kind of satisfaction grinding in her gut as one man lifted Elgar onto his shoulders, handing his sword off to someone else. In that moment, she hated the Stormcloaks.

The pull chain screeched horribly as it was yanked, opening the gate with an equally dreadful noise of ancient, rusted metal grinding and crackling. It led them through a short hallway that veered left and then spat them out into an unusually shaped chamber, a sort of distorted diamond. A chandelier—an Ancient Nord version of a chandelier, a wide, circular bowl made of stone and filled with burning coals—hung from chains in the center of the room, over a raised dais. Strangely enough, the chandelier was...lit. It filled the room with warm firelight, creating faceless shadows against the walls. There were the remains of a rug on the dais, most of it disintegrated against the stone floor by now, and some raggedy tapestries on the walls.    
  
Seated directly before them on a quartz throne was another Draugr, his armor rusted but intact, a helm affixed with antlers sitting on his bowed head. He was slumped in the throne, but the way his legs were positioned almost reminded her of how Ulfric sat. She felt his soul. 

“That’s a Deathlord,” she whispered to herself, making Galmar grunt.   
“Unblooded?”   
“That’s a Deathlord,” Tharya repeated, hardly louder than the first time. “And those two upright coffins, see them? Those are probably Wights.”    
“How do you know all these names, Unblooded?” She squinted at him. “Well...I assume they’re going to wake up.”   
“Doesn’t matter how stealthy we are. A Deathlord will definitely catch the scent,” the Dragonborn nodded as she whispered. Galmar held up a closed fist and all movement behind them ceased.    
“Can you Shout him down, Unblooded?” He said in an incredibly low voice, so quiet she almost didn’t catch it. Unleash her Thu’um in here? In front of people? Had he missed the conversation about not wanting to be known as the Dragonborn? She only shook her head. That was not an option.    
  
Suddenly Galmar turned to inspect the others, all wearing heavy armor and carrying swords, shields, and twohanders. Then he looked at Tharya, in her light, padded jerkin, with her bow and staff. She didn’t like that look.   
“Sneak up to him and see if you can get the Crown off his head,” the man whispered. Tharya blanched. “If you can do that, we’ll just backtrack through the barrow and come out the way we came.” Did he not understand that was a Draugr  _ Deathlord? _ They were bound to wake up the moment you stepped foot near them. “Unblooded?”   
  
_ You know what? They want to fuck with a Deathlord, they can fuck with a Deathlord. Wake him up for all I care. You deserve it. _

With a burst of spiteful confidence she nodded and handed Galmar her bow for safekeeping. Then she went about removing her boots—it wouldn’t do much, but it would muffle her footsteps. If she had any chance of coming out of this. Some part of her couldn’t care less if the Deathlord ran her through or struck her head off with the greatsword leaning against his throne. She’d die giving the Stormcloaks the finger. 

Galmar watched her with interest before giving her a staunch nod. He looked ridiculous, holding her bow and her boots, like a husband or hell, a manservant made to wait while his master shopped. Then began her achingly slow trek towards the throne. Draugr only woke up due to smell or sound, not sight. But the higher they ranked, the easier it became to trigger them out of their sleep. Normal dustmen she’d waltzed right by, before, but not a Deathlord. She’d only met one in her years as both adventurer and Dragonborn, and it had very nearly taken her life.  
  
Tharya dropped into a half-crouch, moving slowly forward. She took the two steps up onto the dais, one hand positioned against the floor, guiding her onwards. Above the chandelier popped and crackled. _Why was it lit?_ As she drew closer she kept her eyes on the Deathlord, unblinking, watching for even the slightest sign of movement or life. Even a twitch. The stone was frigid below her feet, making her toes tingle and go numb, but she ignored it. Closer. Closer. Now he was maybe two paces away. One pace. She paused to peer at the helm on his skeletal head; it wasn’t just a helm. Sitting on his brow was a metal piece shaped vaguely around his head, set with...long, sharp teeth of some sort. And bone? Were those dragon teeth, dragon bones? The teeth sat around the cranium like some sort of spike trap, and there were four more slanting outwards across the Deathlord’s cheeks. She’d never seen the Jagged Crown before, but she was sure this was it.  
  
 _Shor, Mara, Akatosh, Stendarr...Divines watch over me._  
  
She was on one knee in front of the Deathlord now, his body still slumped on his throne. With dreadful slowness she outstretched one arm and then the other, reaching her fingertips for the crown...almost there...she felt the cold metal and then-  
  
A skeletal hand that should not have had as much strength behind it as it did wrapped tightly and suddenly around her throat, shooting out like an arrow before she could even move away from it. Slowly the Deathlord creaked and groaned to life, rising in a shambling tower of bones and dry, hanging skin, his eyes coming to life with a burst of steamy blue magic. Tharya felt her bare feet leave the ground as the Draugr stood to his full height. Good gods, just how tall were the Ancient Nords?   
  
“Unblooded!” She heard Galmar call out for her, vaguely thinking back at him, _my name is Tharya, can’t you use it?_ A choked off sound left her throat and panic set in as the bony hand pressed into her windpipe, cutting off her desperate breaths. On either side of the quartz throne the coffins popped open, and two Wights in all their musty glory stepped out, the bones of their hands rearranging themselves to wrap around the hilt of their swords. Red and black danced across her vision as the Deathlord’s head lolled away to examine his chamber and no doubt the small group of Stormcloaks behind her. More fresh meat. Her own false words bounced in her brain: _If you leave him down here he’ll become a Draugr._ _That’s it, Tharya. Soon you’ll be joining them._ With her last bits of strength, feeling her legs go numb and limp in a wave of searing pain, she reached for the Jagged Crown again. Her palms slapped messily down against the Deathlord’s slick, papery skin, and she clawed for it until she felt it loosen the slightest. If she could get it off...

She gave a hard yank, digging her nails under the edge of the Crown, and with a hollow scraping noise it came off, flying out of her grip to land with a clatter somewhere behind her. The Deathlord’s jaw unhinged, and she felt the air change around them.

**_Fus...ro dah!_ **

He released her as the Shout hit her full force, sending her flying back into one of the scrappy tapestries, which did nothing to cushion the hard stone wall below it. A distinctive  _ crack _ met her ears but she didn’t want to guess at what it was. Her whole body was immobile. There was a roar as the Stormcloaks charged in, but it was faraway and faint. The room made an agonizing revolution around her, and the ceiling drew close and then snapped away with uncanny elasticity. She spotted the Jagged Crown lying not a foot from her hand and forced her arm to move, however slowly. It resembled a flopping fish more than an arm. Only a few inches...she could still grab it...while the others fought...   
  
Her fingers wrapped lightly around the Crown and dragged it across the floor towards her. Tharya moaned and felt hot pain bloom in her side, washing over her until she fell unconscious on the floor of the crypt.

* * *

**_QUEST COMPLETED: THE JAGGED CROWN_ **

* * *

Since she had started speaking a blizzard had whipped up outside, battering the walls of the Broken Oak Inn and slapping at window panes. A generous amount of frost coated the glass, and outside the world seemed blinding white. With it, the room’s temperature had plummeted. Bhijirio had slowly drawn closer to Miraak until he was lying shoulder-to-shoulder with the Atmoran, and Tharya had sunk down so her partner’s head rested against her stomach and her legs were tucked tightly against the sides of his warm body.    
  
“What did you break?” Bhijirio was first to speak after the damp silence that always seemed to kick off interludes like this. “You said you heard something snap.”   
“My ribs,” Tharya replied, “three of them. Incredible I didn’t break my neck or spine and cripple myself. I must’ve hit the wall at a weird angle.”    
“Damn, Sunshine, you’ve had one hell of a run,” the Khajiit smiled sympathetically up at her.   
“Yeah,” was all she said. He didn’t even know about the Icerunner, or about Sanguine. Or Dawnstar.  _ You’ve had one hell of a run. _ “They carried me out too, apparently I held the Crown the whole time. Jorstus looked after me for a bit, but there were no healers, so they did what they could and I healed myself when I woke up. It still hurt like a bitch, but at least I wasn’t going to puncture something. Later that night...” she peered out the window. “Maybe we should move to the common room? I’m sure they have a fire going. And I’m starving.” Bhijirio popped up.   
“Sounds good to me,” he grinned, reaching down to tap Miraak’s cheek lightly. “Rise and shine, Gloomy.” Tharya raised an eyebrow. Had he fallen back asleep?   
“I’m awake,” the First Dragonborn grumbled, swatting the Khajiit’s hand away. Ah. Apparently not. 

Getting out of bed seemed to be its own chore; none of them wanted to leave the little pocket of warmth they’d created. The chill in the room was startling. It was Tharya who moved first, trying to wiggle out from under Miraak with profuse apologies, and finally slid out of bed.    
“Holy gods. It’s freezing in here,” she shivered, rubbing her arms quickly. Bhijirio groaned as he lifted himself off the mattress.   
“Maybe it would help if you put a shirt and some socks on,” he snickered, watching her rummage through her pack for a thick pair of socks. “Coming, big guy?” He reached out to knock on Miraak’s knee.   
“Could you give me the room?” The First Dragonborn asked, not opening his eyes to look at them. Good thing he didn’t, as his companions shared a quizzical look. “For a time.”   
“If you’re not coming, I’m taking your shirt,” Tharya tried to smile but it failed halfway. Bhijirio peered at the other man before shrugging. “You can go on ahead, Bhiji. I’ll just get dressed.”   
“Sure thing.” He cast one last glance to Miraak before heading for the door. “Runa, pretty girl, you want some food? Yes, you do! Come on, princess, we’re going to feast...”

Carefully she fished out a shirt and pulled it on, shuddering as the fabric, too, felt frozen to the touch. Tharya perched on the bed again, watching Miraak open his eyes.   
“Do you feel alright?” She asked him softly, draping the back of her hand across his forehead. As always, he felt like he was running a low grade fever.  _ Atmorans and their high body temperature _ . “Are you sure you don't want to eat? I can bring you something.”    
“I am fine,” he said, sitting up and planting his arms around her. “I will eat later.”   
“No you won’t,” she snorted, “I’ll bring you something.” He pressed a delicate kiss to her lips. 

" _ Kogaan.  _ I should not be long.”

Fidgeting a bit, Tharya looked up at him. “Do you mind me asking what you’re going to do?”   
“Rest,” he replied, “just for a bit.”

“Okay,” she whispered. After another moment she craned up to brush her lips against his. “I love you.”   
  
A smile trickled over the First Dragonborn’s features.   
“I love you,” he echoed quietly, wrapping her in a warm hug. She could smell his lie, however faint it was. He wouldn’t be resting, but whatever he was doing he didn’t feel like entrusting to her, and that would have to be okay. Miraak watched her duck backwards out the door, casting him one last smile. Before he did anything he got up and locked it after her. The Atmoran let out a long sigh, swallowed by a rising screech from the wind, closing his eyes for a second. Gods knew prayer was not what his body craved right now, but it was what his heart and mind needed, and they outnumbered him. 

Prayer mats were long lost with the Atmoran culture, and he had never once come across their like here in Skyrim. In Yokuda there had been some in the remote settlements they passed through, but no one to make any or nowhere to get them. If only he had one. They weren't necessarily required, but he enjoyed the air of formality they created. He was sure if Tharya knew of their importance she would start a crusade for him, but that was also a plausible reason to keep it to himself. No matter. Mat or no mat, he had time, and he had the need to. There was a long, wide shaft of grey sunlight, a bit brighter than the rest of the room, peering through the window. Wordlessly he strode towards it. Somehow it always helped to be in the light. Praying in the darkness tugged his mind astray, and revived dead memories he would rather keep away. 

Miraak slowly knelt on one knee, and then both, pressing one hand over his heart and then the other atop it. Each movement was slow but practised, with the precise motions of a trained Priest—or a lifelong devotee. Perhaps they were one in the same. He inhaled once, feeling his heartbeat under his palms, and then let the breath go. Carefully he bowed his head, not enough to let his chin touch his chest but enough so the sunlight did not touch his face directly.

The old words came easily enough. Though he preferred Higher, Lower Atmoran had a strange mysticism to it, especially when spoken in the correct rhythm of a prayer. Like poetry, iambic pentameter, or even like a three-word Shout, the formal greetings were spoken somewhat like a song. There was ebb and flow to the words in his head—he rarely ever said them aloud, though he often wished to. He greeted his gods and thanked them each individually, absently wondering if they were even there, if they were ever there, if they were listening. Frowning he pushed that thought from his head. Doubt had no place in this moment of faith. He lifted his head again, and released his heart, holding his arms bent in front of him and angled slightly outwards, as if receiving the sunlight unto himself.

And then, knitting together the first true words from his mind, he began to pray.

_ Bormahu, heavenly father, please look upon your first mortal creation with love and shed your light upon him. Jå det ziat. _

Lately he’d been trying to bring Bormahu closer through prayer. He didn’t expect it to work, but...it was, as Tharya called many other things, a last ditch effort. A last resort to bring him closer to his creator. Even if he’d been abandoned in Apocrypha for thousands of years as a mere  _ back up plan _ , he wanted to know his deity. Akatosh, as the Fourth Era Nords called him. At first he felt pathetic, crawling back to his abuser to seek validation, but nonetheless he had begun to pray to him. And lately, Bormahu had been silent.    
  
Slowly he worked his way to Ӕsa, the mother of his beloved cosmos and the chief deity of the old Atmoran gods. If anything, she would have answers, and sooner or later they would come. The Atmoran gods did not talk anymore; they were buried under the ice of their continent, and had been all but eradicated as their children became extinct. Sometimes Miraak wondered if he, a lone man, a single Atmoran, was enough to bring them back.  _ Jå det ziat. _ Zya, the other gods as well, though he didn’t have much to ask of them.  _ Jå det ziat, jå det ziat. _

_ Aren’t you forgetting someone? _   
  
The voice startled him out of his half-meditative state, making his shoulders stiffen. Who...? Miraak was aware enough to feel his back straighten, aware enough to remember he was in a little place called Greenfield, and he thought that slim connection to the outside world would be enough to pull him out. It usually was. Not this time.

Suddenly he was pulled, yanked further into his subconscious, feeling reality slip through his fingers. He was plunged deep into his own memories, and as the world formed around him he realized where he was: Atmora. Again. But this time he was not by the lake, and his parents were nowhere to be seen. He was standing at the foot of the Medja range, staring up at the mountains behind a short row of four people. Two women by the looks of it, and two men. No, wait. He squinted at the figure on the far right.

_ Maros? _

If that was Maros, that meant the figure next to them was...was  _ him. _ Miraak trudged forward through the thick snow. This was his initiation. He and Maros, and the women—Emica and Lalaith, their names came flooding back to him now—they were all about to spend a week climbing  _ Aiza-el-Dorm _ , trying to reach the Atmoran monastery via a terribly dangerous mountain path. If they could reach it, well, they would become Dragon Priests. This was one of three initiations they had to choose from, and the four of them had all chosen  _ Aiza-el-Dorm. _ Giant that Sleeps—Sleeping Giant, colloquially. It was rumored the Atmoran High Priests had woken the mountain up and that it had absorbed the magic of their spells over the centuries.

  
Countless people had died trying to climb it. There was a reason that the pilgrimage only went to the foot of the mountain, and no further.   
  
The wind whipped at him, slicing his skin, making his breath freeze in his throat, and abruptly the ground fell away into harsh stone, frigid and biting. His head swam as he remembered the climb, as he remembered when Emica had broken her leg in a fall, and the three of them had made the collective decision to leave her behind. He hadn’t felt bad about it then, but watching their silhouettes turn one by one from her crippled body, unconscious, knowing she would never wake up, it made his gut wrench. He could’ve carried her. He should’ve.

_ You’ve gone soft, Priest. Tender.  _   
  
And there was that voice again, echoing within the chambers of his skull, making his eyes tighten in pain. 

**Who are you?**

_ Come now. You know me. Simply search further. _

The scenery changed again, this time to the trio of them shivering horribly, pressed together in a small cave in the mountainside. Maros, a full-blooded Roscrean, was just about his height, but slim. They were pressed under one of his arms, and Lalaith was scooting closer. Another change. The path was so narrow up here, he remembered. Maros had tied a tether around the three of them, magical rope, to keep them together.  _ And I...I- _

**You objected, Priest. You said if Lalaith fell then she’d pluck you off the mountainside with her—isn’t that right? You were ruthless, once.**

_ I was selfish! _

**And violently so. Where is that ruthlessness now, Priest? It will serve you better than your soft, stupid heart when you come to me.**

_ I don’t know who you are. _

They were at the top of  _ Aiza-el-Dorm _ now, approaching the edge of the monastery’s back courtyard. It was a vertical climb. It was raining. The rocks were slick and loose. He remembered the horrible tugging in his gut as Lalaith fell, just as he predicted, the tether snapping tightly around his midriff and squeezing the air out of him. With a mournful look Maros had nodded at him, and Miraak had cut the tether. Lalaith appeared in a brief burst of lightning, her scream swallowed by the thunder following it, and she was gone.

**Look. You could cut them all loose without a second thought, Miraak.**

_ I could have just as easily saved them. _

Ruthless. He really had been. Ruthless and so uncaring and so...so  _ arrogant. _ So self-centered. It made his chest feel tight. He really had gone soft. But...was that such a terrible thing?   
  
The string connecting him to the outside world appeared again, taut and bright, straining to pull him back. Yes, yes, he could get out of this strange nightmare. Desperately Miraak grasped for it, grabbed hold, and felt his body on the outside shift and move; his knees tightened like he was making to stand up.  _ Yes, yes, yes. Bring me out. _ And then, without a sound, the string snapped in his hands. Raucous laughter filled his head, pouring in from his veins, echoing in the cavity of his chest. He felt his head move, and wondered if he was safe, if he would wake up now. His eyes tried to open...they were being held shut. By what? His face felt numb. When he tried to pry his lips open they, too, felt glued together. No, not glue. It wasn’t a lack of strength. It was...it was...

Frost.   
  
With a panicked realization he knew this was exactly what had happened to him that night in High Hrothgar—Tharya thought he didn’t remember it, but he did. It was happening again. Spreading now down his neck, freezing his throat in place. His eyelids twitched as he tried to pry them open. 

_ We're not so different, Miraak. _

**I do not know who you are, but we are not the same.**

_ Branded traitors...for what? For protecting those we love? For acting in the interest of all? _

**I was protecting no one when I rebelled. I only sought power.**

_ Ah, yes. Is that what the little Nord told you? _

And what was this voice, by the gods? Who was talking to him?

**No, it is what she helped me realize.**

_ The meddling Last Dragonborn. Too charismatic for my purposes—and for yours, Miraak. She only hinders you. _

**Keep her name off your lips! She is not yours to speak of, foul creature.**

_ It is all mine to speak of! _ The voice cackled harshly _. The day will come when you return. And when it arrives, I will be waiting for you. Remember, we are not so different, you and I...Traitor. _   
  
With a sharp snap he bolted up, the wind screeching against the inn’s poor walls, the snow pummeling into the window pane and coating it in thick white. The storm had worsened immensely. It now rivaled the strength of Atmoran blizzards, undoubtedly. That was an impressive feat, especially this far south. South, at least, from his homeland. An echoing laugh resounded in his head and vaguely he felt the ice continue to crawl over his body.

_ No...no. Let go of me. _ The thought was too weak. His vision was already black, but it was being overtaken by a new blanket of heavy darkness. Unconsciousness swept through him in a wave, almost succeeding in pulling him under.  _ No. _ He struggled for a moment.  _ Let go of me! _

* * *

Tharya stomped her boots against the hard wooden floor as she entered the inn, heaving the large bundle of firewood in her arms.   
“Ah, just in time,” Bhijirio lifted himself off the counter where he’d been chatting with the innkeeper, and extended his arms to take the wood as he approached.    
“Thank you so much, Dragonborn,” the innkeeper, Orathr, said to her, bowing his head. “I would get it myself, but the snow is just so bad, and this wooden leg is beyond troublesome in those drifts.”   
“Of course, no problem,” Tharya smiled, flicking her hood down and rubbing the melted snow off her cheeks and nose. The blizzard had gotten even more impenetrable in the time she’d been outside; all at once, it seemed, the wind doubled, and the snow grew even icier, pricking her skin like a million tiny knives. Bhijirio dumped the wood by the fireplace and then fed a few logs to the flames, gurgling hungrily. The Khajiit turned to her as she slid into a stool at the counter.   
  
“Did you cut yourself, Sunshine?” He asked, squinting at her and extending one hand to gently tilt her chin up. “You’ve got a nice scratch on your cheek.”   
“Really?” Tharya blinked, touched her face. Fingertips came away tinged with blood. Strange. “I must’ve, on something. My face is just too frozen to feel it,” she laughed and swiped the blood away. It was a small scratch, she saw no need to use a spell on it. But as Bhijirio eased himself onto the stool beside her, pushing a steaming wooden cup in her direction, she tried to remember when and where she could’ve possibly cut herself like that. On what? There had been nothing outside, nothing in the woodshed that would’ve hurt her.    
  
_ Could it have been the snow? _

  
“Say, where’s that large fellow you came in with yesterday?” Orathr asked, his angular Altmer face wrinkling a bit as he leaned against the counter.    
“Getting some rest,” Tharya smiled, taking a deep sip of her tea. “I should warn you now, he eats enough to feed a family, and when he wakes up he’ll be ravenous.”  _ Because he hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday afternoon. _ She kept that thought to herself. It was completely unlike Miraak to pass up a meal. He was  _ always _ hungry. And yet, within a few hours, it would be two days since he’d last eaten properly. Missing one meal was one thing, but it wasn’t like they didn’t have food. Missing a whole day of eating, while they were holed up in an inn?    
“Sudina’s made a big pot of stew and I’ve got some bread in the oven,” Orathr smiled joyfully, “along with a few good sized crostatas. He’ll have a little feast.”   
“Looks like we’ll have to stay another night,” Bhijirio mused, half-turned to gaze out the windows. “Say, is there anyone else here? This place looks a little deserted.” Orathr’s smile turned down a bit at the edges.   
“No, unfortunately. Staying customers like yourselves stop coming around the end of Hearthfire. From then until the end of Sun’s Dawn it’s just drinkers from town or people who need a good meal. Last two years have been odd, though. The seasons,” the Altmer rubbed his rag methodically over an invisible stain on the wood. “All mixed up. Looks like everything is straightened out this year, though. Except for this blasted storm.” Bhijirio cast her a glance before raising his arms to stretch.   
  
“Say,” he said again. Tharya’s lips quirked into a smile. “If I were to pay, could I get my own room?”   
“Of course,” Orathr lit up again. “I’ll even give you a little discount, since you’re the only ones here.” His eyes darted to Tharya.  _ Since you’re with the Dragonborn _ , came the unspoken words.    
“Excellent,” the Khajiit grinned toothily. “Let me go get my purse, then.” He left them whistling to himself. Orathr went to the oven and Tharya watched him adjust the crostatas with a long wooden paddle. By the fire Runa stirred a bit, rolling onto her side.    
  
“Lovely cat,” Orathr bent down to scratch her ebony ears, eliciting a deep purr. “I set aside some stew meat just for you.”   
“Oh, thank you,” Tharya blinked into her tea. What was this feeling of dread hanging in her chest for? She thought about the scratch on her cheek. Could it really have been from the snow? This blizzard didn’t feel right. Something about it...something about it wasn’t just the weather. When she was outside she had felt the distinct crackle of magic in the air. The wind felt as if it was trying to push her back with every step. Push her away from the inn. Making it so...she couldn’t get back.    
  
Her thoughts were interrupted as Runa suddenly jumped to her feet, startling Orathr. The Vale sabre cat circled the U-shaped counter and began to nudge incessantly against Tharya’s thawing legs, a low growl in her throat.    
“What? What is it?” She reached down to pat the cat’s head. That didn’t seem to be what she wanted. Runa pushed harder until she forced the Dragonborn off her seat, and then began pressing against her from behind to get her feet to step forward. “Cutie, I don’t know what you want me to do,” she said sympathetically, crouching to pet the animal properly. Runa growled over her shoulder at something farther in the inn. “What is it? Can you show me?” With a huff the sabre cat prowled by her, tail flicking, and padded through the common room towards the staircase that led upstairs. And then, from above:   
  
“Tharya!”   
  
She hesitated for a moment before spurring into action, taking the steps two at a time with Runa just ahead of her. The cat veered a hard right into the first open door, and Tharya followed.   
  
“Holy shit, what happened to him?” She strode over and felt her knees meet the floor.    
“The ice thing again,” Bhijirio said morosely, holding Miraak the same way he had in High Hrothgar. “But he’s conscious...kind of.” They held their breath as the Atmoran groaned and mumbled to himself, the prayer from before.    
“ _ Kæra Maidira, predare min veste strykkë en tarjund min...in veste anfeindelig liefdor ent'armia int'isto meus hawr d'angen. Jå det ziat.” _ That last bit wasn’t Higher Atmoran. The cold sounds of each word stuck out like a dandelion in a field of roses, sharp and hard compared to the rest of the sentence.   
“Miraak?” She gently took his face in both hands. His cheeks were freezing and wet. “Miraak, can you hear me?”   
“He’s gone,” the Dragon Priest swallowed thickly, his head lolling against Bhijirio’s chest. “He’s gone. I...I got rid of him.”   
“Who is? Miraak?”   
“The Betrayer.”  _ The Betrayer. _ Wasn’t that what the dragons called him?  _ Faal Grutiik?  _ Traitor, Betrayer,  _ The Guardian and the Traitor _ , Abuser. She touched his forehead, also cold, and then felt the pulse beating in his neck. Also cold. But at least his blood was pumping this time. After a minute of resting her fingers there his eyes snapped open and he stared directly at her for what felt like forever. And then he began to shiver. “Do you have a blanket?” Miraak—he hadn’t been himself before, but now he was, albeit a little frightened, his hair wet and clinging to his temples—asked her softly, reaching for her arm. “It’s cold. The blizzard is cold.”   
  
Tharya hurried over to the bed to rip the comforter and one of the furs off, scurrying back as Runa seated herself beside Miraak and began to lick his face. He chuckled hoarsely.   
“Thank you, pretty girl,” he murmured, and then closed his eyes and leaned back against Bhijirio as Tharya draped the blanket over him. “Thank you, prettier girl,” he cracked one eye open, speaking to her now with a grin on his lips. She forced out a smile. “And you, Bhiji.”   
“Finally some recognition,” the Khajiit laughed meekly. Unprompted, Miraak began to tell them what had happened.   
  
“It was similar to the incident in the monastery,” he said. Tharya stiffened. He remembered that? “But then it was a dream. This time I was praying, and his voice came...”  _ His? _ “I remembered my initiation. Emica and Lalaith...I killed them.” Silence draped itself thickly over the three. Tharya was first to find her voice, gently laying a hand on Miraak’s leg.   
“What do you mean by that?” She asked, although the words spoke frankly enough.  _ I killed them. _   
“We left Emica to die,” he said casually, “and Lalaith, I cut free. She would’ve taken me off the mountain with me. I had to. Although maybe I didn’t,” his brow scrunched together, “I could’ve saved at least one of them.” She tensed her jaw to keep her mouth from spilling all the million questions waiting on her tongue.  _ I killed them. I had to. _ What in Shor’s name was he talking about? Who? Emica and Lalaith were names she did not recognize, and they did not sound Nordic in the slightest.   
Bhijirio, noting her silence, was first to speak. “And then what happened?”    
“He said that we weren’t different. I think...he wanted me to come back to Atmora, but I can’t. He said I had gone soft but I do not believe that.” Something in his voice didn’t sound too convincing. “He tried to do what he had done before, in the monastery, to kill me. I...I banished him. It felt like a great pressure was lifted off my head,” Miraak pulled the blankets closer to his chin, “and now I am exhausted. Banishing gods is not an easy task.” Runa put her head on his lap. “If I could rest...”   
  
She and Bhijirio shared a look over his head. This was unexpected, and though it made little sense to either of them, it was more coherent than expected. Except she had no idea who  _ he _ was and why Miraak spoke of  _ banishing gods. _ What gods? Who?   
“Hey, big guy,” she reached out to stroke his cheek lightly, and his eyes fluttered open. He smiled absently at her before his gaze narrowed on her cheek, growing dark and angry.   
“He tried to hurt you,” the Atmoran extended one hand from below the blanket to cup her face, tracing the thin scratch. His fingers, usually hot and strong, were bathed in a frigid dampness. A warm healing spell danced across them and she felt the skin knit back together and seal over. “I am glad to see he didn’t succeed.”   
“Who? Who’s  _ he? _ ” Tharya asked, grasping his wrist tightly. The arm went limp anyway, as if it didn’t have the strength to hold itself up any longer. Miraak sighed.   
  
“Afreik,” he replied, wilting back against Bhijirio. “Afreik, the Betrayer.”


	19. XV: The Gathering Storm

**Morndas, 1st of Sun’s Dusk, 8:57 PM**

Tharya slowly pulled her knees up towards her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs and perching her chin atop one kneecap. This day had been too much. And this bathtub, though small, seemed to be her only reprieve from it. The room was dark except for the wide shafts of moonlight streaming in from the window; the blizzard, just as suddenly as it ramped up, had died down into serene snowfall sometime in the afternoon. Miraak had slept like a log for the rest of the day but joined them for dinner and consumed at least half of all the food Orathr and Sudina had put out. That had been strange too—Miraak hated eating in front of people. She guessed he had been too hungry to care for once.    
  
A low, forlorn sigh escaped her lips. She felt useless. Useless and tired. Miraak spoke of a great weight being lifted, and she just felt another one being placed. She wanted a good long nap, and— _ a drink _ —maybe some tea. Staring into the water and wiggling her toes, she wished it was one of those fancy long bathtubs like they’d had at the College, where she could stretch out and truly relax.    
  
Movement somewhere behind her made her sit up just the slightest, too tired to twist around and see. She heard him stand up, knees cracking, and cross the room to sit on the floor beside her.    
“Don’t you ever get cold in just underwear?” Tharya chuckled, closing her eyes when Miraak leaned over to kiss her forehead.   
“Apparently only the gods can make me cold,” he replied in a quiet voice. “I know you worry, but Afreik can’t interfere again. At least not for some time...I cannot feel him anymore.” Slowly she nodded, wiggling her toes under the water again and watching tiny ripples break around her shins. “You seem tired.”    
“I’m exhausted,” she mumbled. He nodded, stroking her hair for a moment before he stood again, picking something up off the rickety old desk in the corner and shaking it out. She blinked up at him, the moonlight slanting across his abdomen, his hands holding out a large towel. Tharya considered for a minute before whispering: “Can you close your eyes?”    
  
He hummed affirmative and she slowly lifted herself out of the tub, the cold air sending chills racing down her entire body. The floor was ice under her bare feet. Wrapping her arms over her chest, Tharya watched in confusion as he sat in the much too small desk chair, towel still proffered. What was he planning? Nevertheless she stepped forward, albeit cautiously, to stand between his knees. Without hesitation the Priest wrapped his hands around her left leg and began to towel it off.   
“What are you doing?” She laughed nervously, one hand reflexively reaching out to rest on his head. He looked up at her, still with his eyes closed, and raised one eyebrow.   
“Bathing is considered a ceremony in the Moth School,” he replied, “all parts of it.” Ah, yes. The School of the Moth—the realm of ideology and practice that Miraak belonged to, the original ones to use the name ‘Moth Priest’. In essence it meant he was a Dibellan Priest, concerned with pleasure, the coexistence of body and soul, and the many acts of love, both physical and emotional, to be found within the world. She used to think otherwise, but it was a good fit for him.    
“Will you tell me more about it?” Tharya whispered, fingers curling loosely in his hair.    
“You want to hear me rant?”   
“I like your voice,” she smiled faintly. A grin touched his lips.   
  
"The dragons knew they could not perpetuate a religion of just themselves. They worshiped only Bormahu, their creator, and ours. They also knew people would not pray to them about things like love or weather. So they had others—the owl, the bear, the fox, the moth. Each animal avatar represented and presided over something,” he gently picked her leg up and set her foot between his thighs on the edge of the chair, rubbing the towel over her calf. “They were the predecessors of your original gods, in some way. The Nordic pantheon, not the Imperial one. The moth would correspond to your Dibella.” He let that leg down and shifted towards the other one. “Remember the old Atmoran religion was outlawed very early on, so not many people practiced it. In the West, of course, it was very prevalent, and I am very fortunate to be a Western Atmoran in that sense. Every priest could choose one of the nine animal avatars, minus the dragon, to also...study in, I suppose would be an appropriate term.”   
“Why not the dragon?”   
“Because we were already Dragon Priests.”   
“Oh, jeez.” Her face heated up. “Duh.” Miraak chuckled lightly. “Hold on...is this also why there’s a moth on your belt?”   
“ _ Geh. _ ” Tharya shook her head, folding her hands into fists for a moment before sighing. “Do not feel bad about it. You would not have known unless I told you.

“I, as you know, chose the School of the Moth. My brother thought it was just for the orgies, but...I found a strange beauty in its teachings. In the School of the Moth we believe that our bodies are simply vessels for our souls; souls are pure and bright, one’s truest self, and our bodies exist to bear the brunt and dirt of life so that our souls remain pure. Physical intimacy or interaction, as simple as holding someone’s hand, to bathing or making love, were believed to be ways of cleansing a vessel. So maybe I did it in part for the orgies,” he snickered, “but I found it very beautiful and very much to my liking, this kind of...worship of the body. Worship of life and pleasure, but not in a reckless, hedonistic way. It gave many people reprieve from the hardships of life, and gave many others the confidence and means to love themselves and others. It helped me.”

A full beat of silence had hardly passed when he leaned forward to press a kiss against her sternum, drawing out a little gasp. The Atmoran straightened out to kiss a trail between her breasts, across her collarbone and up her neck. Tharya found the inside of her cheek and bit down on it harshly before she did something completely embarrassing.    
“You should go to sleep,” Miraak murmured, finally standing.    
“Not naked,” she laughed weakly, knees warm and ready to unhinge at the phantom feeling of his lips on her skin. It hit her that she’d been standing naked in front of him this whole time.  _ Oh Divines. Oh Divines. Not even a leaf for decency. Oh Divines. _ Regardless she got dressed in the safe, dark half of the room while Miraak returned to the odd little nest of blankets and pillows he’d made earlier, taking the idea from the floor bed in High Hrothgar and taking the mattresses, pillows, and blankets of both beds in their room to create one larger one.  _ It gave many others the confidence and means to love themselves. _ Those words floated slowly back to her. Even if he was a bit of an asshole Miraak respected most people on a base level, as other humans, regardless of sex or gender or race or religion. _ Confidence and means to love themselves. _ She wondered if that had anything to do with it.    
  
_ Hell yeah, I can love myself,  _ she decided, nodding at no one in particular.  _ Right? Yes? Sort of. _ So in just her underwear with her bandeau across her chest, she tiptoed back to the bed and sunk down beside Miraak under the covers, snuggling against his warmth.   
  
“Good night, big guy,” she murmured as he put his arms around her, tracing little circles on her spine.   
“ _ Pruzah vulon, elskavin. _ "

* * *

She woke wrapped in warmth and a startling amount of sunlight, feeling oddly well-rested. The sheets had settled perfectly around her to create a kind of cocoon, which she had neither the strength nor will to leave. And as she woke further she felt skin, warm and smooth, a body pressed snugly against hers from behind and an arm draped over her side to hold her hand. It was odd to feel so much of him—usually she slept in at least trousers, if not a shirt, if not both, but in this moment she could feel his chest expand with each breath, feel the occasional twitch of tendons his arm, feel the dormant muscles of his thigh wedged between her own. It felt...nice. She hadn't thought it would, originally, sleeping in so little clothing, but to have Miraak wrapped around her and to be able to feel him everywhere, it was good. 

She saw that their hands were placed just above the covers, the palm of the arm resting below her head facing upwards. Her own fingers were draped across it, pale and small against his hand.  _ Something as small as holding hands was seen as a way to cleanse vessels. _ Those words from last night...a smile tugged at her lips, and she curled her digits around his index and middle finger, closing her eyes again. Mornings such as this were exceedingly rare, but Tharya intended to bask in every moment of it. Behind her Miraak groaned and shifted, his fingers twitching closed around her own. The Atmoran settled again with a hot sigh, tucking his face into her hair. It would be a stretch to say he was  _ awake _ , but she spoke anyway.

  
"Good morning, handsome."

" _ Handsome? _ " He hummed against her neck. "You never call me that."

"That is a lie," Tharya giggled, "have you taken into account you’re a horrible listener?"

"You only ever call your horse that, my love," he chuckled. "So unless you are going to ride me..." teeth scraped playfully along her earlobe.

"In your dreams," she snorted.

"More often than you think." 

She turned over to look at him with a scoff.

"You're just the worst. I give you a compliment and you have to make a dirty joke about it." Miraak only grinned, capturing her lips with his own for a sweet moment.

"Maybe you do not compliment me enough." With a smile she laid back as he placed himself on one elbow, balancing his cheek on his palm. "How did you sleep?" 

"Pretty good," she answered. The Priest put a palm on her stomach before walking his fingers slowly up from her navel in a wandering line. "You?"

"Like a boulder." Fingers creeping upwards, along her sternum and collarbone—following the same path he'd kissed the night before, she realized with a muted shiver—Miraak finally came to her throat. She felt him hesitate before laying his hand lightly over it, rubbing her neck with his thumb. The same thing he'd done yesterday morning. "I want to hear more of your story,  _ elskavin. _ "

"Hm?"

"After you retrieved the Jagged Crown," he elaborated. "Where did you go?"   
“Jeez, isn’t it early?” She whined, making a face and latching both hands around his forearm. “To be honest, I had almost forgotten I was telling you about that. But let’s see...we got to the part with the Deathlord, right? Well, after that, I healed myself...oh! The next morning I volunteered to go back to Windhelm to bring Ulfric the crown. Galmar sent Ralof with me...”

* * *

  
**Loredas, 24th of Last Seed, Windhelm, 4E 202**

“You may leave us,” Ulfric nodded to Ralof once. “Thank you for your service. Whenever Galmar and the others return I presume you’ll have another assignment, so get some rest.” Ralof glanced between him and Tharya before bowing his head.   
“Thank you, my lord.” He strode out of the room with one last look over his shoulder.   
  
Tharya peered curiously at Ulfric, the bandages still wrapped around her midriff feeling loose and crusty. She wanted to get out of her uniform and into a bath as quickly as possible. She had healed the flesh wound, and the pain had ebbed away after a few days, but every now and then it came flashing back. The Jarl of Windhelm carefully took the Jagged Crown from her, examining it in his hands, eyes moving slowly over each sharp tooth and piece of bone adorning it. If Tharya was being honest, she thought it was pretty ugly. But Galmar had said it was a symbol of power of the kings of old, and it would help sway people’s hearts once they heard, and saw, that Ulfric Stormcloak had the fabled Jagged Crown upon his brow.   
  
“Dragonborn,” the Jarl said suddenly, holding the Crown out to her. She took it, raising an eyebrow at him. “It would be my greatest honor for you to be the one who lowers the Crown to my brow.”   
“Oh, um...” she took a small step back as he lowered himself to one knee and bowed his head. “I don’t think...”   
“You are ordained by the gods themselves to protect the world, Dragonborn. In essence, you hold power...over all of us.” He looked up at her briefly. It didn’t seem like a compliment, but more a challenge. “It would be my greatest honor.” Tharya shifted uneasily from foot to foot. If she was the one putting the Crown on his head, well...for some reason she remembered the legend of an emperor somewhere who had taken the crown from the bestower’s hands and placed it on his own head, wanting to be the one to give power to himself.  _ Only I can give this to myself, and only I can take it away. _   
  
If she was crowning Ulfric, could she then take the crown away?    
  
Taking the smallest step forward Tharya adjusted the Jagged Crown until she was sure it was facing the right way and, with ceremonial slowness, fitted it gently down over Ulfric’s blond hair. It was a perfect fit, and that worried her. It all worried her.

“With you on our side, Dragonborn,” Ulfric raised his head to look at her, extending his hand. Tharya swallowed, her throat dry and tight, before taking it, “I believe the war is not as lost as the Imperials think.”

**Fredas, 3rd of Hearthfire, Tales and Tallows Festival**

Tales and Tallows, as she understood it, had once been a horrible festival in which necromancers would raise battalions of the dead to plunder and provoke villages, prowling the streets at night to get back at the people who saw them as outcasts and disgraces. That, of course, was just one of the many legends circulating around the province. Another popular one was specific to her home of Whiterun, claiming that necromancers would raise the skeletons of the White Plains surrounding the city that had fallen there after a great battle long ago. Of course, no one knew what battle or when, why it had been fought, who had been fighting. The White Plains tale was mostly something for children to dissuade them from sneaking out at night and scaring them into doing their chores. She had never felt a foul presence in the White Plains, and she’d spent plenty of nights out there.

Regardless, Tales and Tallows was not widely celebrated in Skyrim because of its mysterious origins and its clear connection to necromancy. But Ulfric had usurped the holiday for his own purposes, staging a grand feast—not in her honor, thank the gods, but to flaunt the acquisition of the Jagged Crown. She’d been in Windhelm for ten days now, ‘recovering’, but mostly training. Apparently Ulfric had commissioned a sword for her, despite the fact she told him she wouldn’t use it. “Nonsense, Dragonborn,” he had said, a little too loudly, “even a mage can use a blade from time to time.” _Training_ in Ulfric’s mind was day upon day of sparring with others. There were bruises littering her ribcage that hurt to even think about, more on her shins, and one particularly ugly one in the center of her back. Everything seemed to hurt all the time.  
  
Sitting here now, having only picked at her food, Tharya glanced down into her lap where her hands were. They were trembling. The scent of alcohol hung thickly in the air, tainting her every breath. It made her head pound. If she could have just a drop, a sip...maybe the aches would go away. She’d stop thinking about the bruises, right? Just one glass, maybe a bottle? It would cure all her pains.   
  
Around the table the gathered officers laughed raucously, each enjoying their mead without a care in the world. For now, in the main hall of the Palace of the Kings, the war seemed to be forgotten. Each man—because there were _only_ men at this table, and she felt both intimidated and aggravated by that fact—raised their steins to slap against one another’s, mead spilling over, saturating the air even more. Luckily Ulfric had not put her in a seat of honor, so the festivities went on around without a wayward glance.  
  
“Hey, little lady,” just when she thought things couldn’t get worse a heavy arm slipped around her shoulders. “What did you do to get Ulfric’s-” a hiccup, “-attention, hm?” She recognized Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced, the stench of mead on his too-close breath. “Warm his bedsheets?”  
“No,” she grimaced tightly, sliding off the center of her chair to sit by the edge. He took it as an invitation to move closer, curling his fingers drunkenly into her golden hair. “I was part of the group that found the Jagged Crown in Korvanjund. Please don’t touch me.”  
“Aw, come on, little lady-”  
“Tharya.”  
“Hm?”  
“My name is Tharya, not _little lady._ ” It occurred to her she’d introduced herself more in the past month than she probably had in her whole lifetime. My name is Tharya, not _insert creepy sexist nickname that you think sounds cute and harmless here._   
“ _Oh,_ my apologies,” Yrsarald crooned dramatically. “Didn’t peg you as the uptight sort.”  
“I’m just telling you my name, how is that uptight?” His features shifted grimly.  
“Don’t get snippy with me, _woman._ ” His hand tightened in her hair. “I’m still your superior.”  
“My superior _officer_ , sure. Not my _superior._ ”  
“Don’t lecture me on protocol, you dumb bitch-!”  
  
Anger flooded her veins at that. She felt a Shout rise in her throat but forced it back down, instead grabbing Yrsarald by the arm he held her with and twisting it sideways, reaching out with her other hand to grab the back of _his_ head and slam him face-first into the table.  
  
The hall went silent.  
  
All eyes turned to her and Yrsarald, whose head she was still pinning to the wood, even as he struggled against her. Magicka flowed through her arms to hold him there. Ulfric stood slowly. _Gods, just bash his head in. Just slam it into the table again and again. And then leave this damn place._ Raging thoughts swirled in her mind.  
“Guards,” Ulfric called, and her blood froze. Ulfric was going to have her ‘escorted’ out. Thrown in the dungeons, maybe? Kicked out of his good graces? She didn’t dare look at him. She caused a scene and now...now it was time to slip back into place. “Please show Yrsarald to his room.” Tharya felt each muscle in her face go lax. Yrsarald? Surely he would throw her out too. Wouldn’t he? “I saw the whole exchange, soldier.” Ulfric nodded at her respectfully. It was a relief to hear him say _soldier_ and not _Dragonborn,_ as he was so prone to calling her whenever they were alone (which she wished happened a lot less than it did.) “You are well within your rights. Please release him so the guards can take him.” Her hands trembling wildly, she did so.  
“I think...” Tharya swallowed tightly. “I will retire as well, my lord.”   
“Of course. You are dismissed.”  
  
She _felt_ each set of eyes crawling over her as she turned on her heel and strode carefully, keeping her steps precise, towards the door on the left wall by the throne. It would bring her through the war room, and then upstairs. Her room was in the east wing of the palace. _Gods, her own room._ Ulfric really was giving her special treatment. And for what?

_ To keep you docile _ , came the thought immediately.  _ Because you are, after all, a  _ **_woman._ ** _ And a mage, at that. _   
  
No, no. She shoved that thought away. Ulfric respected her and she knew because she could smell it. Maybe he did hold some reservations because she was a woman, but an overwhelming part of him respected her as the Dragonborn, the damn  _ savior of Tamriel _ , and because she had chosen to fight for him—Ulfric held soldiers and fighters in high regard—and maybe he even respected that she could be both a woman and the Dragonborn. Even if she didn’t fit the bill of her fellow Nord ladies who grew tall and had arms that could crush a bear, who could drink anyone under the table, who swung their swords and shields...he at least regarded her  _ somehow. _ That seemed a bit misplaced but respect was respect...right?

Regardless she collapsed onto her bed with a shaky sigh, shoving her hands under the pillow. There was nothing wrong with her fellow Nord ladies who grew tall and had arms to crush a bear. She admired their strength. But they seemed to be the only kind of ladies the Stormcloaks wanted; anyone else was too weak.    
  
“Maybe I should’ve drank my milk,” she said aloud into the empty room, laughing without true amusement. Without bothering to undress she slumped further onto the bed and fell into a restless sleep.

The large clock she had yet to find somewhere in the palace groaned out twelve chimes at midnight, the sky dark and cloudy. It would probably rain again. She woke to the chiming, a notoriously light sleeper. The wild, bandits, assassins, they preyed on heavy sleepers. And she couldn’t afford the luxury of deep sleep anyway, not when there was so much to do. Briefly, as she slipped out of bed, she wondered what it would be like to fall asleep with someone. Wrapped in someone’s arms, blanketed in someone else’s warmth. Maybe then she could finally get some real rest?    
  
Staring into the darkness, she laughed again, quietly and mirthlessly.  _ Listen to yourself. Sounding like a lovesick little girl. _ Nevertheless, the phantom idea of being held, of feeling safe, of being loved hung in the back of her mind as she knelt by her pack and opened it, digging around inside. Aldis had given her a gift for her birthday some time ago, and without even realizing it she had forgotten to open it. Her birthday was the 22nd of Last Seed...how long ago was that now? A week, give or take a couple days?   
“Twenty-seven, now,” Tharya murmured to herself as she extracted the thin package and tucked it under her arm, heading for the door. “You’re getting old.”   
  
Yes, she was. And what did she have to show for it? Besides slaying Alduin, which had only happened because the whole damn world needed her to. She had only one friend in the whole world—which, of course, she was thankful to have any—but they saw each other so little it almost made her forget about him sometimes. Maybe she could start writing letters? He was probably busy, though, and the thought of filling a whole page with words was a menacing one at best. With the war and Solitude and protecting Elisif...coming down the stairs she thought of her family. They truly didn’t deserve all the shit she put them through. Showing up and leaving sporadically throughout the years, being gone for holidays, for months at a time. At this point she would’ve been gone since...Rain’s Hand? Excluding her few stops back home that never lasted long. She’d missed Second Planting, and helping Severio Pelagia in his fields. She’d missed the mid-year celebration and making iced tea with her family. She’d missed the Merchant’s Festival and bartering with Belethor, Sun’s Rest and Danica’s beautiful ceremonies, Harvest’s End and the party in the Bannered Mare as everyone celebrated their hard work. Would she even be home for Saturalia this year? For the New Life Festival?   
  
The darkness of the Palace of the Kings enveloped her as she trotted down the stairs and back through the war room, by the throne, opening the door on the right wall that led down into the kitchen. The cook would be long gone but surely a couple missing cookies or apples wouldn’t be noticed. After all, she’d hardly eaten at the banquet, something her stomach was now regretting. She tiptoed into the kitchen and lit a magelight despite the bright moonlight streaming in from the window. A fat, full moon. She could go past the city gates and run around in the woods if she wanted to. The very thought made her beast blood stir, but she squashed it. Someday she’d cure herself.   
  
After rummaging around and finding an apple and some freshly baked bread she seated herself on the counter, holding the bread in her mouth, and went about untying the twine Aldis had wrapped her gift with. The brown paper crinkled loudly but she was far enough away from the sleeping quarters that it wouldn’t bother anyone. Pulling her magelight a little closer, she peered at what the paper revealed: a tall and thin book, titled  _ Fine Woodworking: Volume I. _ Below it was another book, smaller, perhaps to fit in a pocket or a belt pouch.  _ The Little Book of Whittling. _ A grand smile tugged at her mouth. Of course  _ Fine Woodworking _ would have to be stowed away for later, given its own special place in the saddlebags where it would be safe; the hard blue cover and silver design were obviously finely made, but she also didn’t have the tools or the materials to be making chairs and tables and such on the road.  _ The Little Book of Whittling _ , though, that she could keep with her.   
  
“Dragonborn?”   
  
The voice made her jump so hard she nearly launched herself off the counter, magelight flickering out of existence. Luckily, the person at the door had a chamberstick with them, illuminating their face weakly in the dark.   
“Ulfric,” she said, and then quickly corrected herself. “Ah, ah—my lord. Apologies. You startled me.” The Jarl chuckled lightly, waving her off. She lit another magelight, bathing the room in a pale blue glow. He set the candle down on the table in the center of the kitchen, readjusting the thick night robe around his torso.   
“What brings you here at such an hour, Dragonborn?” He asked quietly, facing her. Tharya slid discreetly off the counter, gripping her apple tightly in one hand.   
“Oh, just...hungry, I guess.”   
“You didn’t eat much earlier.”   
“No,” she tried to laugh. “I guess I didn’t have much of an appetite at the time.” He nodded his understanding.   
“Please, don’t let me interrupt your reading.”   
“Oh, no, actually, I...this is a gift,” she lifted the books. “From a friend.”   
“A birthday gift?”   
“Yeah.”   
  
Ulfric nodded again and circled the table, examining the kitchen with a thoughtful eye as he went. She stood there quietly, half at attention and half wondering if she should leave. What was he doing here?  _ Gods, you called him Ulfric. _ Dammit. But he didn’t seem upset by it.    
“Happy birthday, then, Dragonborn,” he finally spoke again, coming to stand a few feet away from her. And then, asked with a grin: “What loot does this year bring?”    
“Just some woodworking books,” she hesitantly offered them to him, and he took both to examine.   
“You’re a woodworker?”   
“Ah, not really. I whittle a lot on the road and I’ve built some stuff for my parents but...” she trailed off with a shrug. “Haven’t had the time to sit down and make things in a while.”

Ulfric smiled fondly. “You work best with your hands, then. My father was much the same. When I was a boy he carved small wooden soldiers for me to play with.”  _ Gods how do I respond to that? That’s nice. I think my dad was a soldier but he’s too scared to tell us. _ Before she could reply, though, Ulfric handed the books back to her. “I believe I will have another birthday present for you, then. Perhaps two. Your brother and I had something of a chat recently.”   
“Jorstus?” Her eyes widened. “He came back?”   
“No. We spoke before you left for Korvanjund,” he said. “I inquired as to your skills and where you would be most useful—and most comfortable. He told me that you are something of a survivalist,” the Jarl raised an eyebrow at her, “and usually work best on your own. Also that you have skill with a bow, tracking, hunting, and that you have taken down entire bandit forts on your own.”   
  
Tharya swallowed the dry spot in her throat, squeezing the apple again. Where was he going with this?   
“I’d like to think so, my lord. I enjoy...nature.” Divines, that sounded ridiculous. “So I know how to sustain myself and interact with it.” Another nod.   
“It seems to me you are not suited to large battles or combat,” he went on. “As a mage, it is safe to assume your spells may indeed wreak havoc on the battlefield.”   
“Well, not quite, I can control-”   
“You would be an excellent scout, Dragonborn,” Ulfric interrupted. No, he continued. As if she hadn’t said anything. “So I have collected some assignments that require, shall we say, more  _ stealth _ than the usual footsoldier exhibits.” So she was finally getting things to do instead of sit around all day? That was nice. “I will have Galmar brief you in the morning. You will be journeying into enemy territory, Dragonborn, so it is imperative you memorize your assignments and carry no written proof of them.”   
“Yessir. My lord.”   
  
Surprisingly, he smiled at her, and extended a hand. Tharya tucked Aldis’s books under one arm and reached out to shake it.   
“Your sword will be ready tomorrow before you leave. Eat up and sleep well, Dragonborn. You won’t be returning to Windhelm for a while.”

* * *

**_QUEST STARTED: LIBERATION OF SKYRIM_ **

* * *

  
By noon she was standing just by the heavy doors to the city, examining her sword. She had forged only two in her lifetime, but this one seemed to be made by a master; as if Eorlund Grey-Mane himself had shaped it. It gleamed in the bright light—a one-hander, thank the Divines—the blade a little wide with the bear emblem of Eastmarch carved into it by the hilt. Its weight was unusual and a bit uncomfortable in her hand, compared to her staff. On the opposite side was...   
  
The ancient symbol of the Dragonborn. That should’ve been the third sign.   
  
She recognized it with growing dread, the circular shape that Delphine and Esbern had shown to her forever ago. How did Ulfric know about this? Did the smith know what it meant, or was it simply just another symbol to them? Did Ulfric ask them to carve it? Quickly she slipped the blade into its brown scabbard on her back. Apparently Ulfric had also commissioned a sword belt to be made that had a loop for her staff. Though she already had one, it was definitely due for an upgrade or two, so she gladly took the belt. The staff fit a little tightly but it would loosen up the more she used it.    
  
“Ice-Veins!” She looked up to find Galmar, Ulfric, and someone unfamiliar approaching, the Jarl carrying a small bundle in one hand.  _ Ice-Veins? _ Was that her name now, instead of Unblooded?   
“Ice-Veins?” She repeated, and Galmar laughed heartily.   
“We call your brother _ Snow-Hammer _ now, so it seemed fitting to give you a name as well.” The man clapped her on the back perhaps a little too hard. “How do you like the sword?”    
“It’s nice,” she said. “It’s got...”  _ what are good characteristics of swords? _ “...nice balance.”   
“It better,” the stranger gruffed, “I spent extra time getting the weighting right. Mage like you doesn’t have the strength to wield a sword properly so I adapted.”   
“Oh.” She blinked. “Thanks.”   
“Ice-Veins,” Ulfric cut in with a glance to the smith. “You’ve received your orders?”   
“Yep.”   
“And you know where you’re heading first?” She nodded. “Very well. I assume the kitchens stocked you saddlebags with enough food to last part of the journey.” Another nod. “And the stables already have your steed waiting. A parting gift,” he extended the little canvas bag to her. Tharya peered inside, reaching in to extract- “Cedar whittling blocks. My father thought cedar to be one of the most beautiful woods to work with.”   
She grinned. “Then he never worked with tulipwood.”   
  
Galmar reached out to pat her back again, giving her shoulder a good shake.   
“Make us proud, Ice-Veins. And make sure that Deathlord didn’t knock anything loose upstairs!” With a bellowing laugh he began to stride away, and after a moment the smith followed. Ulfric lingered, staring at her, nodding deeply before he, too, turned and left.   
  
She smiled as two guards pulled the left gate open for her, exposing the bridge that would lead her to the stables. On to Falkreath, then. Finally she was free.


	20. XVI. 25 or 6 to 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains potentially upsetting descriptions of violence, so be warned!

**Morndas, 13th of Hearth fire**

**Knight and I seem to be making some quick time to Falkreath. Am I allowed to say where I’m going? Well, too bad. Ulfric said some bullshit about** **_memorizing orders_ ** **but little does he know my memory is garbage, so I wrote them all down the moment I left Windhelm. It can’t be that bad because this journal has a self-destruct sequence anyway. So we’re going to Falkreath.** **  
****  
****Apparently to deliver some orders and help stage a rescue from Fort Neugrad. We’ll see how it goes...I think they may be expecting more reinforcements rather than just me? Don’t know. We’ll find out soon enough. I was a bit skeptical at first but in the end I’m glad Ulfric and Jorstus had a talk because it’s been nice being able to move on my own. Most times I can go through the night, and I can usually eat in the saddle, so the trek from Windhelm to Falkreath will probably take me 12 days at most, and we’re already 9 days in. Another good thing is that it’s still fairly warm (maybe not warm, but temperate or something like that) and there isn’t any snow. It’s getting colder at night though, slowly.** **  
****  
****I thought about passing through Whiterun again on my way to Falkreath but decided against it. Especially since I’ve chosen a side in the war, and Whiterun has been taken by Imperials. I want to see my family again but I don’t think it’s worth the risk.**

Raising her head from writing she squinted into the sunrise, Knight grazing quietly beside her. She’d have to get going soon. Looking down at the journal again, Tharya added:

**I wonder where Jorstus is. I thought he’d be returning to Windhelm after Korvanjund, but I guess not. I hope he’s doing okay.**

Closing her journal, she stood and tucked the little book back into her saddlebags. It was time to get back on the road.

**Turdas, 16th of Hearthfire**

She veered off the road late into the morning and was deep in the woods by noon; thinking it was probably safe here, she stopped, reached into her saddlebags, and tied a blue scarf with white trim and the bear of Eastmarch on it loosely around Knight’s neck. Ulfric’s network of operators was severely lacking, but apparently they all identified each other with these scarves.  
  
The smell of the camp drifted to her nose before the camp itself ever came into view. Someone was cooking. Another person was working steel—a quartermaster, maybe? The muted scent of canvas tents wafted on the light breeze, and mixing with every smell was the distinct scent of humans. Tharya followed her nose, carefully watching the path she took so she would remember how to get back to the road later. From the camp it would be mostly due east. If she had followed the road any longer it would’ve taken her to the Jerall Mountains, and somewhere through them this road would become the Silver Road and take her to Bruma. It was the road she had taken to and from home every summer to _The Rabell Institute of Architecture and Architectural Design_ , simply called Rabell by its students. It had been hard to get in—she was the only one of her siblings to attend a place of higher learning—and expensive, but worth it. Situated by Lake Arrius, nestled in the foothills north of Cheydinhal, Rabell had sucked up two jobs worth of money every year but she was glad to be there. Or at least she was, for three years.  
  
 _Maybe if I hadn’t left in my third year I wouldn’t have been at Helgen_ , she thought to herself, watching the treetops. And where would that leave the rest of the world? Probably in Alduin’s drooling maw. Besides, the story of how she had snuck back into Skyrim and ended up at Helgen was something all its own.

* * *

**Turdas, 2nd of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 207**

Miraak was looking expectantly at her, one thick eyebrow raised, the hand that wasn’t supporting his chin laying dormant on her stomach.  
“And?”  
“And what?”  
“And what is the story?” She laughed, sitting up and looking out the window.  
“It’s almost noon, big guy. Aren’t you hungry?” Tharya reached out to ruffle his hair because he hated when she did that, and then got to her feet with a yawn. “I am. Let’s go eat, and I’ll tell you how I got to Helgen. But then back to Fort Neugrad.” After a moment he rolled his eyes but obliged, standing to get dressed, pulling a shirt and thick socks on. Runa had spent the night with Bhijirio, mostly at the Khajiit’s own coaxing, so she wasn’t lying guard in front of the door this morning.

After they were both dressed they slipped out of the room, locking the door—with magic, of course—behind them. She reached for Miraak’s hand as they trotted down the stairs together.  
“I had no idea you were so interesting, _elskavin_ ,” he snickered to her, brushing his thumb over her knuckles.  
“Wow, rude.”  
“Why have you not told me any of this before?”  
Tharya shrugged, trailing one finger along the banister. “You never asked.” Just as they turned into the common room Bhijirio turned from the bar where he had been chatting once again with Orathr. The elf gave them a bright smile. Runa was prowling around the floor, tail flicking back and forth. When she saw them she immediately leapt over to Miraak, forcing her way between his knees and wrapping her tail around his ankle.  
“You are much too big to still be doing that, beautiful,” he chortled, crouching to pet her.  
“Good morning, sleeping beauties,” Bhijirio crowed, gesturing grandly around the inn. “Just in time for lunch. Sleep well?”  
“Actually yes,” Tharya shrugged, “for the first time in a while.”  
The Khajiit smiled, “Glad to hear it. Looks like the storm is completely gone. When are you thinking of getting back on the road?” She turned to peer out the windows by the front door. The snow was high and blinding white, but Bhijirio was right; the sky was clear. And they needed to get back to Whiterun before the next one came.  
“Probably tomorrow morning. Early,” she replied. If they started early and went a little late, they could probably make it to Riverwood in a day, and then Whiterun was only an hour or two of riding from there. Depending on the pace, they could even make it to Whiterun in a day. With the snow and cold, that could be pushing it.

“I’ll bring breakfast over,” Orathr smiled again at them. “The usual table?”  
“Usual table.”  
  
Bhijirio glanced at Miraak, currently being bombarded with nudges and thwacked with Runa’s tail as she licked him. The Atmoran scrunched his face up, gently pressing her away, but she didn’t give up. Strangely enough, he seemed fine. No traces of Afreik or whoever had been plaguing him recently; the First Dragonborn had been out of sorts since they left High Hrothgar, but now he looked to be back to his usual self. It was...jarring, at the very least. Miraak of all people was always stalwart, unmoveable, unshakable. At least, that was the front he put up. Bhijirio was disheartened to say he had yet to crack through it entirely.

“Helgen,” the Atmoran said simply, striding over to them with Runa at his heels. The chair almost looked comically small for him but he sat anyway, the Vale sabre cat placing her chin on his thigh so he could keep petting her.  
“Helgen?” Bhijirio repeated, looking to Tharya. She sighed.  
“We’ll be passing through there on our way home, why don’t I just tell you then? We can even stop and get some juniper berry mead, if he’s still making it.”  
“Who?”  
“Vilod.” She shrugged. “Assuming he didn’t die or leave when the town was destroyed.”  
“You’ve been storytelling without me?” Bhijirio frowned. “What’d I miss?” 

Tharya waved one hand dismissively. “Nothing important. Ulfric gave me a sword and sent me on my merry way,” her voice dropped noticeably to something just above a whisper, and when Orathr returned she sat back in her chair with a tight-lipped smile. With a conspirator’s eye she watched him go, and for a while didn’t speak until he left even the bar to disappear into the basement. Miraak didn’t seem to think much of it but Bhijirio raised an eyebrow at her, watching the Last Dragonborn down the last of her tea.  
  
“Can I ask what that was about?” The Khajiit murmured.  
“No one... _knows_ that I fought in the war. Except Ulfric and Galmar, and they’re both dead,” she said uneasily. “No one knows _the Dragonborn_ fought. Especially for the Stormcloaks. To them I just...disappeared for a year-ish, and then popped back up again a year later to get Ulfric off the throne. I didn’t plan to kill him,” she added in a dreary mumble. Suddenly Bhijirio could see her eyes were hard again. “But then he killed Kharjo and the Dunmer and Argonians in Windhelm...so I wasn’t going to let that slide. At all.” Her knuckles were white around her cup and for a moment the Khajiit worried she would crush it. “But anyway. At the point we’re at I had just arrived in Falkreath,” she continued in that low, quiet voice, “and I was supposedly the backup to a rescue mission from a place called...”

* * *

**Turdas, 16th of Hearthfire, 4E 202**

“Fort Neugrad.”  
  
Galmar pointed to a carefully marked X on the map of Falkreath sitting open on the table, atop a larger table of the entire province. “Twenty miles south. A day’s ride. Our men were captured while scouting the area out, so I don’t know if the Imperials know our location or not. There’s already a scouting party out there.” Tharya nodded, peering at the map. Twenty miles south. Falkreath was to their west, then. This camp was close to Greenfield, almost what she would consider dangerously so. Especially in an Imperial Hold. “The main objective is to get our boys out of there. But,” the man held up a thick finger. “If you can take the fort for us, we’ll be able to take Falkreath by the end of the week. I’ll be leaving tomorrow to head into the Rift.” She straightened out and nodded. “The captain here will receive you upon your return. Good fighting to you, Ice-Veins.” He extended one hand over the table. She shook it and mechanically repeated the mantra back to him, and then strode out of the tent.

It was early afternoon, and though she wanted to get on the road as soon as possible, she and Knight both needed rest. There was a cooking fire going and the soldiers seemed eager, so lunch must be soon. Instead of eating with them, though, she led Knight away from the center of the camp towards the quartermaster, who looked to be sharpening the curved blade of a greataxe where he sat. He only looked up at her once as she took Knight’s saddle off and let him wander about to graze, settling herself in the shade of a large tree. Tharya fished through her saddlebags to find the last of the rations Ulfric had initially sent her with; soon they’d be gone, but she had no problem living off the land. And undoubtedly the Imperials would have some food in their fort, food no one would miss.  
  
As she ate she watched each stroke of the quartermaster’s whet stone. His hands were calloused and tough. He’d been smithing for a while, maybe his whole life. She liked to consider herself something of a smith, if an amateur one. _When the war is over, maybe that’s what I’ll settle into. Smithing._ Though the prospect of becoming an architect was tempting, no one would want a dropout.  
  
With lunch gone she took to whittling, enjoying the few hours of respite before the storm. Her mind wandered to Jorstus and home, to the Imperial occupation. How was everyone doing? She knew her parents were smart enough to stay out of the Imperials’ way. Her siblings, too. But the rest of Whiterun, the Grey-Manes...how were they faring? Vignar must be fuming. And Balgruuf? Was he working with the Imperials, or making plans to kick them out? Had they installed an Imperial governor to replace the Jarl? She had heard of other Holds where that had happened. Kicking a Jarl out and replacing them with a ‘governor’. Balgruuf was smart too, but sometimes slow to act. She prayed he would still be there whenever she returned home, and not on a pike at the city gates.  
  
Her eyes began to lose focus as she thought, fingers loosening around her whittling knife. A little nap couldn’t hurt, right? Just until nightfall, and then she’d get moving. Fort Neugrad. But first, a little nap...

* * *

**_QUEST STARTED: RESCUE FROM FORT NEUGRAD_ **

* * *

The afternoon was warm by the time she reached the fort. The detachment of Stormcloaks had camped far enough away from the Imperials that their fires at night weren’t seen. She wrapped the scarf around Knight again as their scent hit her nose.  
“Just for a few minutes, big boy. Then you get to relax some more,” she said, patting the horse’s neck lightly and leaning forward to sniff the air. The camp was well-hidden, she’d given them that. And it smelled like they hadn’t done much cooking recently. She drew Knight just a few steps closer before sliding out of the saddle, gently stroking his nose before leading him forward. The grass, beginning to grow dry with the oncoming autumn, crunched lightly under their footsteps. With luck, they could take the fort today, rest, and return to the other camp. Or maybe they would wait here for the others to show up? Galmar _did_ want them to take the place for the Stormcloaks, after all.  
  
“Halt!” Her boots scraped to a stop as she laid one hand on her bow, still attached to the saddle, looking around for the source of the voice. “State your name and business, traveler.”  
“Ice-Veins,” she replied, wondering if maybe enough people knew her real name to recognize her as the Dragonborn. “I’m your reinforcement for Fort Neugrad.” She let her hand slip off her bow and raised both palms tentatively in front of her. “Galmar sent me. Well, technically, Ulfric sent me.” Carefully two figures clad in brown and blue emerged from behind the trees, one still holding his bow taut.  
“Reinforcements...Galmar sent just _you?_ ”  
“Yep.”  
“One person,” one man groaned.  
“It has to be a trap,” the other muttered, flexing to release the arrow.  
“Wait wait wait!” She threw her hands up again. “I’m not a trap. I’m a mage,” Tharya explained, reaching for her staff.  
“Don’t move!” The man with the bow shouted gruffly. Her spine went stiff.  
“I’m a mage,” she repeated, slowly, “and a good archer. I used to be an adventurer. I’ve taken down whole bandit forts by myself,” one hand gestured vaguely through the woods to Fort Neugrad. “How can I prove to you that I’m not lying?”  
  
A dense moment passed before the man with the bow eased his grip, straightening out to peer at her. As he did, two more people emerged from the trees, all with weapons either drawn or sliding back into their sheathes. They didn’t look entirely convinced, but at least they weren’t two steps away from killing her anymore.  
“If you are our only reinforcements, then you get to prove it,” one of them said. “You said you’re a good archer and that you’ve taken down whole bandit camps before, just by yourself?” She nodded. “Shoot down the Imperials on the outer battlements. Then we’ll charge in and take the rest of them.”  
“Hold a moment,” a new voice said. Another man entered the clearing, a familiar blond with pale eyes. “I know this woman.”  
“Ralof!”  
“Good to see you, Ice-Veins,” he gave her an understanding nod and a wink, striding through the trees to envelop her in a tight hug. “I can vouch for her. She’s trustworthy,” Ralof wrapped one arm around her shoulders and nodded to his comrades. “Besides, I thought we agreed on a plan of action? Using the cave?” _Cave?_ What cave? A back entrance to the fort?  
“We never _agreed_ on anything,” the man with the bow growled. “Going in through the cave would mean we have to wait until nightfall. We’ve already wasted enough time waiting for reinforcements,” he eyed Tharya disdainfully, “and all Galmar sent was a _woman mage._ ”  
“Maybe you didn’t agree to it, but as your superior officer I say we’re waiting til nightfall and going in through the cave,” Ralof said cheerfully. “Six of us alone aren’t going to fare well just barging into a fort through the front door.”  
  
She glared at the man who had dismissed her as _a woman mage._ That should’ve been the fourth sign.

* * *

The cave in question that Ralof had decided—for better or for worse—they would use to enter the fort was located by the west wall. What Ralof had failed to mention was that said cave was situated under a lake, and said lake was deeper than she expected. At the very least the water wouldn’t be frigid, as it still clung to the last heat of summer. Standing with the others at the edge of the lake, Tharya looked up at the looming figure of Fort Neugrad and wondered if she had any spell at all that she could use to keep from getting wet. Though the night was chilly she had removed her ruana and left it with Knight; it would only weigh her down, and she needed something dry to get into afterwards.  
  
“The entrance to the cave is about thirty paces towards the fort, and then down another ten or so,” Ralof said. “If you can live without those fur boots, take them off. They’ll be heavy and uncomfortable. And loud.” He checked the straps of his metal gauntlets and slapped each forearm heartily. “We’ll have to swim to the rocks there, and then dive and swim through.”  
“Sounds like a plan,” she nodded. Her own boots were leather with metal shin guards, but she wasn’t particularly attached to them. If she needed to, she would have no problem leaving them behind. They waited as the others removed their fur trappings and tightened sword belts around them. It had been two hours since nightfall, now nearing midnight, and by the time the sun rose above them they planned to have the Stormcloak flag flying above this place.  
“Ready?” Ralof looked around at everyone.  
“Ready.”  
  
He was first to step into the water, testing it a little with one foot before striding in. Luckily the usual footsoldier armor wasn’t very heavy, but she couldn’t imagine it was entirely light either.  
“I don’t fancy letting my sword rust,” someone behind her mumbled as she strode into the water after him. A faint grin touched her lips. She’d left the sword with Knight, too, and with the enchantments on her staff, water would hardly damage it.  
“I’m sure Renn will want something to forge, he’s been complaining for days,” another man groaned. The water crept all the way to her stomach before the land below her boots gave way, and she had to swim the rest of the way, following in Ralof’s wake. One by one the Stormcloaks did the same. The water wasn’t particularly warm but nor was it particularly cold; she followed Ralof to the little outcropping of rocks and then dove below the natural arch towards the bottom of the lake, swam forward, and returned to the surface in a dark, underground gave where the water’s ripples echoed loudly around them.

There was a narrow opening in the cave’s wall that molded into a rocky corridor, a foot of cool water sloshing around their shins as they followed the passage. It grew darker and darker the farther from the cave they got, until she lit a magelight on the tip of her staff.  
“Dammit,” Ralof cursed in front of her, and they all came to a stop. Tharya peered around him to see what it was he had halted for. Behind her, someone groaned.  
“What is it?”  
“A wall,” Ralof grit out. “Damn Imperials must’ve filled it in.” She raised one eyebrow.  
“If they knew about it, why would they fill it in? It would make a perfect back way out of the fort if they were ever under attack,” she murmured. “Let me by.”  
“Ice-Veins?” Regardless, the man stepped back a little to let her slip by him. She leaned her staff against the wall and then felt the rock in front of her.  
“This is just a guess, but some old forts are built purposefully over Nord barrows or underground holds. They make for good storage or holding cells. And the Ancient Nords were pretty big into hidden traps and levers,” her fingers fell into a smooth crack just wide enough for her fingertips to trace, between the “wall” and the rock around it. “Fort Neugrad is pretty old. It’s been around for longer than I can remember. And _this_ ,” she gave the slab a hard tug, “is a door, not a wall. Which means there’s a switch somewhere around here or in the cave we came in through.”  
  
Behind her someone whistled softly. Another declared they would backtrack into the cave and look for anything that could activate the door. A pair broke off from the group to do so. Ralof was squinting at the wall in the darkness, his arms crossed.  
“Here. Feel this,” Tharya took her fingers out of the little groove in the stone and grabbed his wrist, replacing his hand where her own had been. “That groove goes all the way around the door. Which means the Ancient Nords cut through this rock wall and then installed this hidden door.” Slowly the man nodded. “They’re easy to miss since they’re all weird shapes and sizes. Meant to blend with the wall.”  
“So there’s a chance the Imperials don’t know about it,” Ralof said with a questioning lilt to his voice.  
“A big chance.” As her magelight flickered out she lit another one, stepping away to examine the tight walls of the corridor with a careful eye. Just like the doors, the levers were often easy to miss unless they were meant to be seen. It was even worse with handles, which were usually embedded in pillars or walls and made of dark wood that vanished easily into the dim light.  
  
A little shout from inside the cave alerted them all but was quickly replaced by a groaning, rumbling sound from the corridor around them. She and Ralof turned to watch as the hidden door trembled before it began to sink into a pre-dug crevice in the ground.  
“Excellent work, Ice-Veins,” the man grinned, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. The two soldiers who had left rejoined them and together they filed quietly through the oddly shaped opening. Tharya was quick to find the handle that would close the door. When someone protested, Ralof shot them a look. “The only way we’ll be leaving this fort is through the front gates, once we raise the banner.” She couldn’t argue with that. Once they had all wrung out their boot and clothes as best as they could to avoid making noise, they began their infiltration of Fort Neugrad.  
  
The door had brought them into what looked to be a storeroom. Freshly stocked, too, by the scent of it.  
“At least we won’t go hungry,” someone behind her remarked. On the other end of the storeroom was a locked door that someone opened with a hard kick, and they tiptoed down a short hallway until they were met with another door.  
“Wait!” She whispered, reaching for Ralof’s shoulder. “There’s people on the other side of this door.”  
“Imperials?” He whispered back, unsheathing his sword. Behind him, the others tried to do the same in the cramped quarters. Tharya inhaled slowly, trying to mask the act of sniffing the air before getting to her knees. “Ice-Veins?” Without replying she laid her staff down and then pressed her ear to the stone floor, listening. The Stormcloaks waited with baited breath around her.  
  
 _Thud, thud, thud, thud._ Someone walking. The feeble vibrations of a voice touching the walls. But to the east...

 _Scrrrrrape. Scrrrrrape._ The jarring noise of something dragging along stone. Something dull but strong, able to mark the rock. The footsteps picked up again, heavy and purposeful, striding across the room away from the door.  
“Stop that!” Someone barked, making them all stand rigid. She winced. The sound rang off the walls. “Stupid Nords,” the same person muttered. Without a sound Tharya got to her feet again, plucking her staff off the floor.  
“I think that’s where the prisoners are,” she breathed, nodding to the door. Ralof raised an eyebrow at her but swallowed and nodded once, staunchly, before holding one hand up. As the long seconds passed he put a finger down, mouthing _five, four_ to them, turning back to the door and readying himself. _Three, two_ . He lingered on two for a moment before lowering his middle finger, almost immediately putting down his index after it and then raising one foot to slam the door open.  
  
The two Imperials standing in the room jumped and turned to them as they drew their swords. Ralof charged at the one nearest the cells with a shout and Tharya clenched one fist around a frost rune spell, tossing it at the floor as the second one moved towards them. From the other side of the room came a gut-wrenching _crack_ of bones and flesh meeting a blade, and then from in front of them a cut off yelp as the rune was activated and immediately encased the Imperial in a thick coat of ice, midstep. Without even asking, Ralof turned and swung his sword directly for the ice block.  
“No, wait-!”  
  
The shattering sound was deafening, explosive and crushing, sending bits of ice flying around the room. She threw her arms up to shield herself from it, feeling the magic in the air dissipate as the ice vanished. Thick blood landed in semi-frozen globs on her arms and hair, smattering the others as well. The soft _plop_ of gore raining down on them would’ve sounded infinitely less offensive if it hadn’t been congealed body parts. There was a dense moment of silence, of terrible, nauseating silence, before someone to her left turned around and threw up. Scattered across the floor were bits of flesh and jelly-like blood and organs. It had not splattered on the walls much, but what had slid slowly down the stone like slugs, leaving wet, red trails in their wake. Tharya felt her throat clench around bile.  
“That’s why we don’t shatter frozen people,” she whispered as a chunk of blood slipped off her scalp, broke on her ear, and then oozed down onto her neck and shoulder.

* * *

Bhijirio was staring at his last piece of bread and bit of leftover stew with a newfound look of disgust on his face, upper lip twitching. Miraak stared at the Khajiit without emotion, but Tharya didn’t miss the thick bob of his throat as he swallowed.  
“Fool,” the Atmoran muttered softly. “He should’ve known better.”  
“How could anyone who isn’t a mage know that would happen?!” Bhijirio said hoarsely.  
“Common sense,” Miraak narrowed his eyes. “When you hit something frozen, it breaks. Even a child understands that.” Still the Khajiit didn’t look eased.  
“It got on you?” He grimaced at Tharya, and she nodded in return.  
“Yeah.” A sudden shudder ravaged her spine and she felt the urge to itch her head. The memory of Ralof shattering that Imperial hadn’t plagued her in a long time, but now it came back full force. For a moment she met Miraak’s eyes, and by the way he looked at her she must have been making a face, because he untangled his arms and reached out to place a hand firmly around her knee. “Anyway.” She cleared her throat and reached down to squeeze the First Dragonborn’s fingers tightly, watching Bhijirio rub his face. “Yeah, it was really gross. I probably should’ve left that out.”  
“Maybe,” Bhijirio laughed weakly. “It’s okay, Sunshine. Don’t worry about it.” He carefully ripped off a piece of bread and examined it before eating it. “So, you took the fort, I presume?” Leave it to him to change the subject so easily. She envied his carefree attitude sometimes.  
  
“We did,” Tharya nodded and busied her brain with tracing the roadmap of veins decorating the back of Miraak’s hand. “Fort Neugrad is pretty small, and the Imperials already had a pretty much iron grip on Falkreath. So they only used it as a prison fort, more or less. There weren’t a lot of soldiers there, so clearing the place was pretty easy. One of the prisoners who felt strong enough to fight took me up onto the battlements, and we used our bows to take the other archers around the fort out so Ralof could charge through. The fort commander surrendered-” her voice halted in her throat just then. _The fort commander surrendered._ “But, um...we killed him.”  
  
The silence was final after that; Bhijirio stared at her and Miraak let out a quiet sigh.  
“ _Piraak aan praan,_ ” he said.  
“I told Ralof not to, though,” she blurted before she could stop herself. “If he surrendered willingly then we should’ve taken him alive. But already we’d emptied out the fort so he ordered someone-”  
“ _Elskavin_ ,” Miraak stopped her again. “It is alright. You do not need to explain yourself.”  
“War is shitty,” Bhijirio put in gravely, an uncharacteristically grave expression on his face. “It was brave of you to even fight in the first place.” After a moment the Atmoran looked outside and gave her a little tug.  
“Go put your boots on, both of you. We are going for a walk.”

Beyond the inn’s walls the air was cold but not unbreathable and there was a thin layer of frost on the otherwise powdery snow. Tharya and Bhijirio squinted until their eyes were nearly shut against the blinding whiteness of it all, but Miraak, unphased, merely put his hood up, his face framed in fur.  
“How can you see anything right now?” She muttered, kicking at the snow.  
“I could lecture you all day about the evolutionary benefits of being an Atmoran in winter,” he replied, “but then I would have wasted a day.” Raising one hand to shield her eyes from the sun she linked her arm with his and tried to keep up with his huge, effortless strides through the snow that was just about knee-deep on her.  
“Does this even bother you?” Bhijirio spoke up from the other side.  
“The cold? No. This is not very cold,” Miraak replied, looking around as if he were taking a summer stroll.  
“ _Not very cold?_ ” The Khajiit barked out a laugh. “What’s considered cold, then?”  
  
Tharya peered up at her partner as he thought to himself. Though he didn’t speak much of his past, it was a treat to hear him talk about Atmora. He spoke of the land so lovingly and so proudly, it was impossible for that love and pride to not rub off on his audience.  
“First you must understand that the Motherland did not have four seasons like you do here,” he began. “We rotated between winter and spring. Each would last years at a time. Springs usually four or five years, and winters five to seven. Of course there was a period of transition between winter and spring, what you would refer to as autumn. It usually lasted a few months. But winter did not mean the death of nature,” he gestured one hand to the bare trees and barren landscape around them. “Though snowfall was great, many trees and plants remained dormant in the spring and bloomed in the winter, so it was very beautiful. And in the southernmost places, around Jylkurfyk, and the West, where I was born, people could continue to plant and harvest.”  
“Jyl...jyl-fur...”  
“ _Jill-kur-fik,_ ” Miraak grinned. “Our largest southern port. It is where most immigrants departed from to come here to the Fatherland.”  
Bhijirio hummed. “Talos, right?” The First Dragonborn snorted.  
“ _Tiber Septim_ was not an immigrant of Atmora, whatever his claims were. The continent was gone before he was even conceived. It is likely he was born to Atmoran parents on the island of Roscrea, southeast of Jylkurfyk, which was not affected by the Eternal Winter. Maybe he was even Roscrean himself.” They had circled the inn by now and were trudging out into the main street through Greenfield’s center. “The final immigration took place in First Era 68. The ship arrived in Skyrim with all on board dead, frozen.” Tharya raised an eyebrow.  
“Dukaan is Roscrean, right?” She asked softly. He nodded. “Talos kinda looks like that. Maybe he’s part Roscrean.”

She knew it was a mistake to mention Dukaan, but the realization only hit her after the fact, when Miraak fell silent once more, the love and pride fading from his face. She watched as his eyebrows knit together again, and instead of examining the landscape around them he stared straight ahead. He was trying to fight it though, trying to hold on to the shreds of pleasantness that had wormed into his heart.  
“Hey, hey,” she tugged on his sleeve. “Bhiji!” The Khajiit leaned around the Atmoran between them.  
“Here,” he replied.  
“Hot chocolate?” With a smile Tharya gestured to a man standing on the porch of his house with a tray in his hands, surrounded by a small throng of kids.  
“Hell yes,” he grinned. Dragging Miraak between them they strode towards the man.  
“Aha! The visitors,” he greeted them warmly. “Sudina’s told us all about you. Dragonborns,” he nodded to all three of them as he spoke. Bhijirio laughed and strangled it back into a cough. “The storm that passed through was truly impressive. I’m glad it didn’t take any houses down.” The man handed a mug to Tharya and extended one to Miraak, but the Atmoran shook his head.  
“No, thank you,” he said quietly, and the mug moved to Bhijirio.  
“Not a fan, eh? Would you like something else, tea?”  
“No. Keep it for the children.” Tharya thanked the man and gave him a little wave as they meandered away, hanging around the porch so they could return the mugs after. They stood clustered together on what would be the side of the street if it weren’t covered in snow, watching as the kids settled on the porch steps and took turns blowing ripples into their drinks.  
  
After a moment of delicate sipping, Bhijirio sighed happily, a column of wispy steam leaving his mouth as he did.  
“Do you want to try it?” He offered his hot chocolate to Miraak, who shook his head again.  
“No, _kogaan._ I do not like sugar.”  
“You don’t like _sugar?_ ” The Khajiit echoed, eyes widening. “How? It’s delicious. It makes everything taste good.”  
“It was an extreme rarity in my time, so I never became accustomed to the taste. Frankly the abundance and use of it now disgusts me,” he made a face, “and it tastes horrible in most things.” Tharya wrapped her arm with his again, smiling to herself.  
“He also hates cake,” she said, slurping loudly as Bhijirio guffawed.  
“You must be a hit at birthday parties.” He sipped and sighed again. “What _do_ you like? What do Atmorans eat?”  
“Food.”  
“ _Wow._ ” The Khajiit chortled to himself, blowing carefully on his drink. It was good to know Miraak was back to normal now. Normal being snippy and quiet. The whole ordeal with this ‘Afreik’ had disturbed him, to say the very least. It was always disturbing to see strong people falter, but to see someone as immovable as Miraak be brought down...left a dry feeling in the back of his throat.  
  
Looking up at the Atmoran he considered asking him more about the faraway homeland he so seemed to adore. He had enjoyed talking about it earlier, that much was obvious. But all his questions always seemed to lead into the inevitable, untouchable one: _What happened?_ Bhijirio knew the continent had frozen over, but how? He was no mage, and the flashy spells and enchantments his traveling companions flung around were way beyond him. His understanding of Tharya’s heliomancy training was shaky at best, and her sylvan magic even shakier. Miraak he could get a better read on; Miraak’s magic was ice, plain and simple. He was brutal and straightforward compared to Tharya’s complexities. Occasionally he threw out some lightning bolts but usually he went with ice, and after that he resorted to his dragon abilities—both were brutal and straightforward. He also wielded a sword, sometimes two, which made him part warrior as well. So even if Bhijirio asked about Atmora’s fate, if the answer was magical in nature, there was a fair chance he wouldn’t understand half of it.

“I don’t know if you want me to keep telling you about the war, but, the next part is a little fun,” Tharya spoke up finally, swirling her mug around and watching the clouds.  
“Fun?” The Khajiit echoed.  
“Well, it wasn’t at the time?” She chuckled. “It was a bit more _lighthearted_ , shall we say.” She took one last sip of her hot chocolate before pulling away. “Done?” Bhijirio downed the last of his drink before handing the mug to her with a little _thanks_ , and watched as she climbed back onto the porch to return the cups and thank the man again. “Come on. Let’s go back to the inn, my face is getting numb.” The Last Dragonborn laughed as she rubbed her cheeks and both men fell into step on either side of her. 

“And before dinner I’ll tell you all about Cidhna Mine.”


	21. XVII. Shattered Shields

She woke in a stale, suffocating space bathed in darkness. The air was thick but sour, smelling of warmed metal and chipped rock. And dirt. Dirt everywhere.    
  
With a groan she sat up, putting a hand gingerly over her eyes as her head swam and spun with the sudden movement. Had someone hit her...? This wasn’t Markarth. Where was she? A little ways to her left there was a wet, rapid sound that she almost didn’t want to pinpoint the source of, but nevertheless looked. There was a man there, dressed in rags for trousers, with a length of rope tied at his waist as a makeshift belt. He had one hand in pants.

“ _ Gross, _ ” she moaned aloud. “Hey, can you not do that?” The man only ignored her and seemed to go  _ faster _ , his gaunt face twisted into something that certainly wasn’t pleasure. “Hey!” She said, a little louder. Tharya looked around the dirt mound she was sitting on and fished out a tiny rock from the earth. “Hey, please stop that.” Without thinking she tossed the rock towards the man to catch his attention—big mistake. Like an animal, his eyes wide and teeth bared, he shot up, and then scrambled across the cell towards no. “What the—don’t come  _ closer! _ ” She kicked one leg at him, which he grabbed with both hands.  **_Gross._ ** “Let go of me, man! I could kill you with three words, you really don’t want to get into it with me.” He was muttering to himself as he gave her leg a good yank, jerking her whole body with the force of it. She flung one hand out to find her staff...

It was gone.

Panic growing in her throat, Tharya searched for the sword Ulfric had given her. It was gone too. In fact, her pack was nowhere to be seen. None of her belongings were here. For the first time, she realized that she was dressed in rags similar to the man attacking her; roughspun, tangled, riddled with holes. And there was a wall of iron bars spanning from floor to ceiling on her right, with a door and a huge padlock holding it closed.

_ She was in a cell. _   
  
“Hey!” She shouted, kicking at the man again. By the gods, what was he trying to do? It was creepy and he was insistent, but not very strong. Her skin crawled as he continued grappling with her legs, one minute trying to rip them straight off her body, the next trying to pry them apart, and the next trying to toss them away. “ **_Fus!_ ** ” The entire place trembled with the force of that one Word, and her cellmate went flying backwards into the opposite stone wall. There was a gut-churning  _ crack _ and Tharya watched his eyes roll and then blood trickle from his lips. “Shit. Shit, hey, are you okay? Sir?” She got up and took a few careful steps towards him. He didn’t move. “Sir?”  _ Fuck, did I kill him? _ Even though her body screamed not to, she knelt beside him, gently touching the back of his head. Her fingers came away bloody. “Sir?” She shook him, lowered her ear to listen for breathing. He had a pulse, but it was strangely weak. Calling a healing spell to her fingers, she lightly touched his arm and let the magic flow from there. With luck he’d wake up within the hour.    
  
“You!” A voice shrieked into the cell, making her jump away from her charge. “No fornicating in the cells!”   
“ _ What?! _ I wasn’t-”  _ Smack! _   
“Don’t talk back, bitch,” the Orc snarled, his handprint forming almost immediately on her cheek. Her eyes wide, the Dragonborn snapped her mouth shut. “No fornicating in the cells,” he repeated, and ran a nail along her throat. “Unless it’s with me, little girl.” His grin revealed frighteningly sharp and large teeth, the color of yellowed paper. It sent a chill racing down her spine as she leaned away from him. Abruptly the Orc grabbed her by the collar of her shirt and tossed her with ease out of the cell, lumbering out after her and locking the door once more. “Now get to work, Nord bitch.” To punctuate, he spit a fat glob of saliva between her bare feet. “Welcome to Cidhna Mine.”

* * *

A loud shattering sound alerted them both to Miraak, sitting stiffly in his seat with taut arms and hot tea flooding over his wrists out of a broken mug.

"Holy gods," Bhijirio blinked at the Atmoran, and then looked down at the shattered cup in his large hands. "Everything okay there, big guy? If you flex any more that shirt will burst."

"Fine," Miraak grit out. He swore to himself in Atmoran and looked down at the tea dripping off the edge of the table and staining the wood. Tharya swallowed a laugh.

"He doesn't like sexist assholes," she explained to the Khajiit. 

"They deserve to be put out of the world," Miraak muttered, letting go of the shards and carefully wiping his palms off.    
Bhijirio nodded to the mug, “They apparently also make you very angry.”

"I apologize." They watched as tendrils of soft magic arched from his fingertips and he put the cup back together slowly, though its spilled contents remained in a wet spot on the wooden tabletop. "Continue."   
“Are you sure?” She shared a glance with Bhijirio. “It gets a little better, I promise.”   
  


Bhijirio gave her a quizzical look before leaning his elbows against the table, “Wait, wait. How did you get to Cidhna Mine in the first place? That...is not a good place to be.”   
“Oh, right. Well, let’s backtrack a little, and hopefully not sacrifice any more of Orathr’s mugs...”

* * *

**_Loredas, 18th of Hearthfire, 4E 202_ **

“Jorstus!” 

Never in a thousand years had she expected to see her brother of all people behind bars, much less be the one sent to rescue him, but that was what Fort Neugrad had brought them to. She slung her arms around him as he lifted her into a tight hug, a long sigh escaping his lips.   
“Thar,” he breathed, “what are you doing in Falkreath? I thought Ulfric would keep you in Windhelm forever.”   
“Hell no,” she laughed as her feet touched the ground again. “But my orders are all top secret, so I can’t tell you.”   
“Well, he obviously sent you here,” Jorstus grimaced around them at the fort. “And I’m glad for it. We’ve been here for almost a week now, and the others were starting to get antsy.” Around them the Stormcloaks were busy dragging Imperial corpses into a neat row by the wall and making last walks through the fort to be sure all the previous occupants were taken care of, and to take an inventory. It seemed as though the Imperials were well-stocked here, even if it was just a prison fort. Maybe they had plans to make it into something more, or maybe they were just getting lazy with their hold on Falkreath.   
  
“Dad’s going to faint if he hears you were captured,” Tharya grinned, holding her sibling by the shoulders. “Are you sure you’re okay?” A healing spell danced at her fingertips and into his body.   
“I’m fine. A little hungry,” Jorstus replied with a shake of his head, “but they followed the protocols and didn’t do us any explicit harm.”   
“How very Imperial,” she mumbled. Her mind wandered to the fort commander.  _ They followed protocols and didn’t do us any explicit harm. _ But the Stormcloaks hadn’t done the same. Was beheading a surrendered captain part of protocol? “I wish I could stay with you.” Jorstus smiled a little, reaching down to hold her face in both sword-calloused hands.   
“I’ll be alright. You have top secret orders to get to,” he said. “I wouldn’t keep Ulfric waiting.” He was right, as usual. Though Ulfric had never explicitly said anything, the way he had spoken to her  _ felt _ urgent. As much as she wanted to linger, it wouldn’t be good, especially with winter approaching. Without another word her older brother kissed her hair and pulled her into a tight hug. “Please be careful. I promised Ma I would look after you.”    
  
She squeezed him as tightly as she could, sighing into his arm. It would be a while until they saw each other again, she knew, and whenever they did, neither of them would be the same as they were in this moment. War was a vehicle of change, and this one was far from over.   
  
“You too,” Tharya murmured. “Because I said the same thing.”

* * *

**_QUEST COMPLETED: RESCUE FROM FORT NEUGRAD_ **

* * *

**13th of Frostfall**

**It was shitty to leave Jorstus but he probably couldn’t have come with me anyway. I’ve become aware of just how much freedom I have in the army, unlike him, he’s confined to serve under a captain (with Ralof, thank the gods). But here I am traveling all on my lonesome through the Reach, on my way to blackmail the steward of Markarth.** **  
** **  
** **Yeah, it sounds worse aloud (written down?). Apparently he’s devout, a Talos worshiper (so strange to think of that as a bad thing) and he’s been at odds with Jarl Igmund about the war. We might be able to convince him to give us even a little bit of intel. At best, we want him as a reliable and continuous source, but if we can’t do that, a one-time thing will have to be okay. It’s a little ironic that Ulfric thinks ‘espionage’ and spywork is ‘dishonorable’, yet this entire mission is based around blackmailing some guy and gaining him as an insider?** **  
** **  
** **Nice one.**

**But anyway. I’ve been in the Reach before but only briefly and never to Markarth proper. The city is worse than Riften, so I’ve heard, and I hate Riften enough. I’ve been relying on my map to get me through. This whole place...feels so strange? Every minute of the day I can smell** **_people_ ** **, though I rarely pass anyone, and I always feel like somebody’s watching me. Is that normal? I’ve heard of the Forsworn, the Reachmen. They were apparently here first and had their own kingdom until Ulfric screwed that up. Could it be them?**   
  
She lifted her head as a cold breeze rolled over the road, carrying with it the crisp air from the mountains. She smelled the Reach—old stone and rivers and dirt—and, as usual, the close scent of other humans. Fur? Feathers? Maybe they were wearing pelts. Either way, they hadn’t bothered her yet. The sun was setting, which meant it would dip below the peaks at any moment and bathe the road in a gloomy glow. Dark came early in the Reach thanks to all the mountains, ruthlessly blocking the sun the moment it fell behind them. She would have to get up and travel a bit more after she finished writing.

**Even so, I really like the Reach. It could do with a lot less hills (I’ve been walking instead of riding to give Knight a little break, he seems to appreciate it, but my calves are wound tighter than music boxes) but the landscape is beautiful. The rivers here sparkle and wind every which way, and the other day I passed through a covered bridge that looked to be Akaviri architecture, with sloped roofs and shallow eaves.** **That’s kind of weird, isn’t it? Akaviri architecture in the Reach? What were they doing all the way out here?** **(Sky Haven Temple is out here, duh.) The bridge may have marked the path to Sky Haven Temple, but I took a different way when the road forked. I wonder if Delphine and Esbern are still there?**   
  
A soft whinny from beside her made her close the journal and tuck it back into her bag, standing with a long yawn. Delphine and Esbern...she hadn’t seen them in a while, but it wasn’t like she was chomping at the bit for a visit. Delphine treated her like a child and Esbern never listened to a word she said, whether purposefully or because he truly couldn’t hear her, she didn’t know. No, Tharya wasn’t too keen to spend some quality time with the Blades.

She took the reins in one hand and stepped back onto the stone road, adjusting her ruana around her. Everything out here seemed stuck in time, still and quiet, disconnected. She hadn’t heard any word of the war since entering the Reach, and had barely passed a handful of people on the road. When asked, if they stopped for her in the first place, they didn’t know about the war either. Even so she still felt those eyes watching her every moment, eyes following her every move. It was so lonely out here, and yet so crowded. 

* * *

**_QUEST STARTED: COMPELLING TRIBUTE_ **

* * *

**14th of Frostfall, 4E 202**

The big Dwemer doors to Markarth were thrown wide, a false sense of welcome to mask the city’s ugly streak of corruption. She may not have been to Markarth before, but the stories traveled easily, and even without them she could smell the horrid condition of the place. Somewhere below her was a forge, smokey and hot, and even below that was a large place underground, maybe dug into the ground? It smelled of sickness and vomit and...something she couldn’t place for a moment, until she recognized it as Skooma. A sickly sweet but also rotten smell, something she wasn’t very accustomed to but remembered distinctly nonetheless. What was below the city, then? A Skooma den?    
  
“For the Forsworn!”   
  
That shout pulled her out of her thoughts, snagging her attention on a man covered in dirt with stained miner’s clothes raising a rusted pickaxe over his head. What was he...?   
“Watch out!” The cry left her lips just as she leapt forward, wrapping both arms around the man in an attempt to drag him away from the woman shopping carelessly in front of him. Hearing Tharya shout made her turn and scream as her eyes landed on the raised pickaxe.   
“Guards!” The woman yelled frantically, but there were none to be seen. No guards in the marketplace? How was that possible? Not one even passing through? There were always guards meandering around in Whiterun. “Gods, someone help!” The miner struggled and writhed like a captured animal against Tharya’s grip, his arms straining forward to bring the pickaxe down on his intended target. With a rattly roar he broke away, turning on her with bloodshot eyes.   
  
“ _ For the Forsworn! _ ” He screamed into her face, and with all his strength swung the pickaxe in a wide arc over his head at her. It met the blade of Ulfric’s sword with a harsh  _ clang _ that rang into the silent morning. The circular symbol of the Dragonborn glared at her in the light. The miner wrenched his pickaxe away, nearly pulling her sword out of her hands as he did, but she held fast. Another swing—he was powerful but sloppy. Even so, she wasn’t much of a blademaster. With a grunt Tharya parried the blow, wincing at the horrible shriek of metal grating over metal. “For the Forsworn!” He yelled as he attacked again.   
“We heard you the first time, man!” She shouted back, deflecting a second blow.    
“ _ Guards! _ Guards, someone help!” The woman shrieked. Balancing on her toes, Tharya gripped the sword and thrust the blade forward as her opponent stumbled. It sank home with surprising ease, nestled high between his ribs. The miner’s eyes went wide and he gripped her arm weakly, groaning as blood slipped like a waterfall over his dirty shirt and stained it the color of snowberries.    
“I die for my people,” he whispered fiercely to her, and then pushed himself farther onto the blade before falling limp.   
  
Dumbfounded the Dragonborn let him fall to the ground, her sword still sticking out of him like a huge splinter. She hardly even heard the commotion in the marketplace as the guards approached. The thick scent of blood filled her nose so completely she almost choked on it, unable to get clean air. It made her head tight as a dry cough forced its way from her mouth, throat raw. So much blood. It was staining the grey stone and pooling in the cracks, completely coating the miner’s torso now. Holding a hand to her nose and mouth, Tharya knelt beside the man and gently dragged her fingertips over his eyelids.

_ Shor guide you to whatever afterlife you believe in, stranger. _   
  
“You there!” A clipped voice accompanied by heavy footsteps crossed the marketplace towards her. She got to her feet and stepped away from the cooling body, sucking in a large gasp of air out of both need and surprise. Those weren’t the guards.  _ Those were the Thalmor. _   
  
A man, an Altmer with a long face and angled cheekbones was approaching her, black robes lined with gold whispering loudly in the silent market. Two more Altmer in armor marched in sync behind him.    
“Get up,” he commanded in a condescending voice. On shaky legs she obeyed, rubbing her nose gingerly. The Altmer’s eyebrows shot up as he examined her face. “I know you, Nord.” His already narrow eyes squinted down at her. “What are you doing here? This is  _ my _ domain. Did Elenwen send you?” Tharya sighed as Ondolemar stared at her, impatiently awaiting a response. Of course Ondolemar, of all people, would be the one to recognize her. They’d met at Elenwen’s party about a year ago and apparently her face was not a forgettable one. And now what, he thought she was under orders from Elenwen, from the  _ Thalmor? _ Carrying out her work for the Aldmeri Dominion in Markarth?   
  
“Those are not for you to hear,” she replied at long last. It wasn’t entirely a lie, was it? “Our  _ mutual friend _ -”   
“I heard there was quite a commotion at the party,” Ondolemar cut her off. She blinked. He  _ heard? _ Hadn’t he been there?    
“O-oh, yes. The, uh, the Bosmer servant tried to escape with some...information,” she strung the words together hastily, remembering Malborn’s bloody face at the bottom of the stairs. She hadn’t been able to save him...she hadn’t been quick enough. Surprisingly, Ondolemar barked out a laugh, cold and unfeeling as it was.   
“Of course he did. I suspected him for quite some time.” The Altmer glanced around the market. “One can never trust those filthy  _ wood elves. _ Barbarians.” His upper lip curled into a grimace. Tharya cleared her throat before glancing down to the miner.   
“Were you not at the party?” She asked carefully.   
“Oh, I was. I simply left before all the fun happened, it seems,” Ondolemar shrugged dismissively. “Elenwen may enjoy her little gatherings and sign her paperwork, but some of us have  _ real _ work to do.” With a lofty sigh he kicked at the miner’s body. “What’s this?”   
Tharya grimaced again, “A man tried to attack someone in the market.”   
“Did you kill him?”   
“He attacked me too.” The Justiciar fixed her with a stringent look before nodding and turning, calling for the city guards who had been lingering by the Silver-Blood Inn. One of them, in leather armor with a dark green sash and scarf denoting him as captain, stepped forward. When he spoke, his voice was lazy, disinterested, almost bored.   
  
“Everyone stay back,” he raised one hand, sounding as if he were discussing the weather instead of a killing, “the Markarth city guard have this  _ all under control. _ ” He scratched his brow. “There are no Forsworn here.”   
“That man tried to kill Margret!” Someone behind her shouted, and Tharya nodded vehemently.   
“He was even yelling about the Forsworn,” she added.   
“There are  **_no_ ** Forsworn in the city,” the captain repeated, hooking his thumbs into his sword belt. “Everyone just go about your day.” Beside her, Ondolemar scoffed and muttered:   
“Stupid Nords.”   
  


Before she had the chance to reply to him or even the captain, everyone in the market was dispersing, citizens muttering to themselves and shaking heads, the guards rolling their eyes and lolling around without even sparing a glance to the miner’s body. What was happening? Ondolemar and his soldiers were walking away, their strides bringing them up through the city’s center and back towards the keep. If this had happened in the streets of Whiterun, no one would-   
“Oops,” a male voice grunted as her shoulder collided with something hard, making her stumble towards the miner again. Before she could regain herself careful hands steadied her shoulders before falling away. “My apologies. My wife always tells me how clumsy I am.” Tharya turned, her heart thudding hard in her chest. “Are you alright?” She swallowed.   
“Yeah,” her voice was strained and tight with the reply. Alright? No. Overwhelmed? Yes. A man had just tried to kill a woman, and then  _ she _ had killed  _ him _ , and then  _ Ondolemar _ had showed up,  _ recognized  _ her? And then the captain of the guard had hardly batted an eye at the man lying dead in the street, blatantly disregarded the threat of Forsworn...   
  
“Oh, this yours?” The man bent to pick up a folded letter off the ground, one of the few patches that remained untainted by blood. Tharya squinted at it.   
“Uh, no.”   
“No, it must be,” the man shrugged and for the first time she got a good look at him. He seemed to be a Breton, just about her height, with a forest of black markings on his face. She couldn’t tell if they were tattoos or warpaint. “Maybe it fell out of your backpack.” She caught the glint in his eye and took the note from him.   
“Yeah, maybe,” she repeated hoarsely. The man lingered for another moment, shaking his head sadly at the miner’s body and the woman she saved—Margret?—staggering back towards the inn, looking over her shoulder every few steps.    
“Gods, a woman attacked right in the streets. In broad daylight,” he sighed, “never thought I’d live to see the day. But thanks to you she’s alive,” one hand clapped her on the shoulder. For some reason the action reminded her of Galmar. “It truly is a blessing you showed up when you did, stranger. For what it’s worth, I hope the Eight give you peace in the future.” He bowed his marked face and then swept by her, giving the corpse a wide berth. Tharya realized she was trembling as she watched him go.   
  
_ Gods I need a drink a drink I just need one drink just one a little sip just to calm my nerves by the gods I just killed a man in the street and why does no one care I need a drink a drink I need just one drink- _   
  
With shaking fingers she unfurled the note, the stench of death blocking her nostrils. In neat but rushed handwriting came one sentence:   
  
_ I’ll be waiting for you at the Shrine of Talos once the sun sets; come alone and unarmed. _

A soft gasp left her mouth as two guards appeared to drag the body off, leaving a thick trail of red across the stone as they dragged him. She read the note twice more before crumpling it in one fist and lighting it on fire, the ashes falling into a pile in her palm. She’d only been in Markarth twenty minutes, and already the place was closing in on her. Waiting. Watching.   
  
Ready to pounce.

* * *

**_QUEST STARTED: THE FORSWORN CONSPIRACY_ **

* * *

**_8:34 PM_ **   
  
The note had said unarmed. She called bullshit.   
  
In just one morning, in even  _ less _ than a morning, Markarth had shown her its true colors. In most cities you had to seek it out yourself or get into enough trouble that the ugly side would come to you. Like a frozen lake, most citizens were content to dwell on the fragile frozen surface while they pretended the ice below them wasn’t cracking. Markarth, though, had lost to the ice a long time ago, and now everyone was left with a severe case of hypothermia as they roamed the frigid waters, still smiling and pretending everything was alright. She knew a bad city when she smelled one, and Markarth smelled like a cesspool of all human evil. There was absolutely no way she would be walking into the Shrine of Talos unarmed tonight.

It was difficult to find; the city was a huge Dwemer maze, the roads were cramped, and often buildings rose two or even three storeys as they were built into the stone. It all seemed to be carved straight out of a mountain. The staircases were long and though wide, felt tight and imposing. There were some bridges running between stairs and landings that had no railings, crisscrossing the city from above. And most places didn’t have signs, except for the Silver-Blood Inn, where she had spent the afternoon battling down her desire to drown in ale. In the end she hadn’t won. Now as she climbed a third flight of stairs and started across another flat bridge, her vision felt slow, her feet dragging a little, but the undeniable tingle of alcohol in her system was enough to keep her going.  _ Sorry, Aldis, for letting you down. I promised I’d get better. _ The ale here was hard. Even after a single stein she’d felt it take hold of her.   
  
Like most other doors in Markarth, the Shrine of Talos was unmarked. Its entrance was nestled in a thin corridor of stone, bathed in darkness. She adjusted her grip on her staff as she approached it, pausing at the doors. _ Talos, if this is the right door...protect me, please. _ Ondolemar’s face flashed through her mind. The head of the Justiciars in Skyrim, tasked with rooting out all Talos worship and punishing those who refused to bow to the Dominion’s whim. He thought she was in with Elenwen, thought she was here on behalf of the Thalmor. It would have to stay that way. A voice drifted lightly through the back of her head:

_ Step into my temple, little sister. All is safe as I am here. _   
  
With that she opened the door and stepped inside.   
  
More darkness was the first thing to greet her, with dying candles lighting the way dimly down another stone staircase. But the darkness didn’t concern her. It was the sudden emergence of a new presence, a new scent beside her that caught her attention, and she lit the soul gem atop her staff to cast a ring of faint light around herself, illuminating the newcomer on her left.   
“You called?” Talos grinned down at her before pulling her into a tight hug, her ribs creaking under his thick arms. “My favorite sibling!”   
“I didn’t call, I just prayed,” Tharya muttered as he set her down. The warrior-god was a head taller than her with a squarish face and tawny beige skin, smooth black hair that touched his shoulders half done up in a little topknot at the edge of his scalp. “Your favorite sibling? I’m basically your only sibling.”   
“Well,” Talos shrugged, “there are a few others, but you wouldn’t know them.”   
“I don’t think your descendents count,” she pointed out, starting down the stairs. He snickered, arms swinging as he walked even with a shield attached to one of them. This was not the first time Talos had showed up, and she got the feeling it would not be the last. But it was only ever him, never the others. Never Akatosh, who supposedly created her. “Why did you come?”    
“Because you called.” Tharya rolled her eyes again. She hadn’t  _ called. _ It had been a simple prayer. Shor didn’t show up every time she wished for him to take her to Sovngarde, did he?    
She eyed the darkness of the chamber at the bottom of the stairs before replying, “Well, do you at least come with a plan or something?”

Talos laughed. "I'm not a very  _ planful _ person, little sister. I see a chance and I take it! Gods damn the consequences," he smiled broadly at her. 

"Oh, yeah? Is that what you were thinking when you made Barenziah get an abortion?" Tharya chortled flatly and Talos's brightness faded a bit, shooting her a curious glance. 

"Sometimes you are just like him," the Divine sighed. 

"Who?" 

"The First." Talos touched his shield absently. "He was a witty good-for-nothing. But you, of course, are a witty good-for-something," he amended with another grin. “Now I must leave you, little sister. I cannot tell your immediate future but I know, for the time being, you are safe in my temple.” He touched her back lightly. Tharya raised an eyebrow.   
“You don’t know what’s going to happen?” Talos’s eyes darkened just the slightest bit, his palm settling on her shoulder.   
“Don’t concern yourself too much with it. Nothing has gone in our favor since  _ he _ died,” was all the Divine replied with before vanishing, the warmth of his hand going with him. She stared at the spot where he had just been almost in disbelief. Leave it to the gods to give cryptic answers only. Also leave it to the gods to disappear just when she probably would’ve needed him.    
  
Carefully, gripping her staff in one hand, she entered the room. It was musty and, like everything else in Markarth, composed of four stone walls with a stone floor and stone ceiling. There was a statue of the man she had just been talking to against the wall opposite her, with a shrine at his feet, candles unlit. Everything looked, and smelled, like it was covered in a thick layer of dust. Ondolemar had obviously shut this place down early on. So how had she gotten in so easily? The door hadn’t even been locked-   
  
“Easy.” The voice came at the same time as the cool metal of a knife pressed to her neck, threatening to slice her throat. Her muscles locked up everywhere. “Who are you?”   
“Are you kidding?” She hissed. “You shoved a note in my hand and asked me to come here earlier in the market, idiot.”   
“I said unarmed.”   
“And I ignored that,” she grabbed his forearm and tore it off her neck, holding her staff at the ready. “Because look at the city we’re in.” The Breton man from earlier stepped into the dim light cast by her staff and pocketed the dagger, sighing.   
“I suppose you’re right.” He looked her over once. “This is good. You’re an outsider and look dangerous enough. You’ll do.”

She grimaced at him. “I’m not doing anything until you tell me what’s going on. I have important business here and not a lot of time.” The Breton extended a hand.   
“Eltrys.”   
“Tharya.” She shook his hand quickly. “Now what can I do? There’s some people here I’d rather not get entangled with again.”   
Eltrys raised an eyebrow. “The Thalmor?” She gave him a sharp look. “Sorry, just a guess. I’ve never seen you before and I’ve lived in Markarth my whole life. So it was either the Thalmor or the Silver-Bloods. And you don’t look rich enough for the Silver-Bloods.”

After pocketing his dagger Eltrys began to explain the history of Markarth—stuff she didn’t have time for, but didn’t interrupt him. He told her that the Reachmen, the Forsworn, had once had their own kingdom here, which rose after the Third Aldmeri Dominion took the Imperial City. The Empire turned a blind eye to its other provinces, so Eltrys said. Legionnaires stationed in Markarth were recalled to fight, which is when the Reachmen came in. They swept over the city and took it as their own, and then declared the entirety of the Reach as their own kingdom, separate from Skyrim. They made overtures and groveled at the Empire’s feet to be recognized as such, but the Empire was too busy to even glance their way. 

  
“I wasn’t alive yet, but my parents lived through this. My mother was the most truthful person I ever knew,” he said firmly, “and she told me the Forsworn were good to most folks. The commoners, farmers, people going about their lives. It was the nobles who cried wolf constantly, and so the nobles brought their ire. But of course everyone listens to nobles over commoners, so when the elite got their feathers rustled once or twice, after the war was done, the old Jarl went crying to Ulfric Stormcloak about it.”    
  
Ulfric had agreed to fight on only one condition, Eltrys claimed: that the Jarl would allow the free worship of Talos, recently outlawed by the Great War. More accurately, by the Aldmeri Dominion. The Jarl, Hrolfdir, was all too eager to allow it. Maybe he hated the White-Gold Concordat as much as Ulfric did, but in the end he just wanted his throne back. So Ulfric marched his men to the gates of Markarth and swept through the city, killing Reachmen left and right, Shouting the place apart. Her skin crawled at that. Tharya made no claims to perfection—she was well aware that she didn’t always abide by the Way of the Voice. But to blatantly use one’s Thu’um for such purposes...felt  _ wrong. _   
  
“Hrolfdir went off the hook. No one outside the Reach really knows what happened, but everyone inside does. He imprisoned some of the Forsworn but then killed a thousand others; civilians were killed, too. People Hrolfdir thought had  _ colluded _ with the Reachmen somehow, or had failed to stand up to them. Executions went on for days, the city became a bloodbath. Any Reachmen who remained fled to the hills, and their king—Madanach—was taken to Cidhna Mine.” He looked at her for a long moment before sighing. Tharya stood in silence, her arms crossed lightly, before she stepped away, pacing slowly towards the statue of Talos.   
“So?” She asked finally. Eltrys gaped.   
“ _ So? _ ”   
“Look, I don’t mean to sound rude but I really don’t have time for stories,” she replied. “I appreciate you telling me your history. I understand this gods-forsaken place a little more. But you brought me here to do something for you and you still haven’t told me what it is, and I’m running out of time.”   
He lumbered forward a single step. “The Forsworn have been acting up lately. I think it’s because of the Civil War, but attacking a woman in broad daylight is new for them. I can’t stand by and watch this place fall into ruin again, so I need you to help me figure them out. And wipe this stain off Markarth.”

He wanted to...purge the city? Of what, though? In his voice he held sympathy for the Forsworn, even if just a little. He said he wanted to figure out what they were after,  _ wipe this stain off Markarth. _ Whose stain?    
“Who exactly are you investigating?” She asked, narrowing her eyes on him.   
“Anyone and everyone connected to the Forsworn.”   
“Don’t lie.” Startled, he looked at her through the dim light.   
“The Silver-Bloods,” Eltrys admitted lowly. “They’re conspiring with... _ I don’t know. _ ” His words were tight with frustration. “The Silver-Bloods have only grown in power since the Uprising, and the guards have only gotten lazier and lazier. They don’t do anything about these attacks! I need to know  _ why _ ,” he growled. Tharya held his gaze for a second.  _ He really hasn’t thought this out, has he? _ He was just a man, a civilian, trying to do better. At least she thought. His purpose wasn’t exactly clear to her, but it didn’t seem clear to him either. Was he with the Forsworn, or against the Silver-Bloods? Either way it didn’t matter, because whatever she was going to say next was interrupted by the door to the shrine slamming open, the sound echoing painfully against the stone walls.   
  
“Oh, Dragonborn,” a voice sang from the top of the steps.  _ Ondolemar. _ His scent wafted down to her even through the thick coating of dust that submerged everything. “If anything, you are a testament to the true idiocracy of your kind. I, of course, recognized your wretched face the moment you stepped foot in this equally wretched cesspool of a city.” Beside her Eltrys gasped, his eyes wide.   
“ _ You’re _ the Dragonborn?” He hissed. “You should’ve-”   
“You too, Eltrys. I am truly disappointed.” Soft footsteps as Ondolemar began to descend the stairs. The clanking of guards in armor behind him, but they were not all Altmer. Not all Thalmor. Some of them were men. “I had hoped your little investigation would go further than this, but it seems you, and it, are destined to meet a sorry little end here in the temple of your false god. Cornered like rats.”    
“Hide,” Tharya whispered to him. “Hide, hide!”   
“There’s nowhere  _ to _ hide,” he said, gripping her arm. “There’s only one way into and out of this shrine! It’s that door!” She tried to shake him off. “Please, you’re the Dragonborn, you have to do something! You can Shout at them, you’re the greatest hero of this era. You can-” Tharya sank back into the shadows, pulling Eltrys with her, until they were at the base of Talos’s statue.  _ Talos, please, if there was any time to come, it’s now! _   
“Do not fool yourself, Eltrys,” Ondolemar crooned, “great hero she is not. Stupid, meddling Nord whore she  _ is _ ,” the Altmer sounded less than pleased, his voice hard and angry. “The time of the Dragonborn has passed. I will thank you for ridding the world of Alduin. The Thalmor would’ve dealt with him eventually, as I’m sure he would become an annoyance. But that is your only use in this life, and you’ve fulfilled it.” He stopped at the foot of the stairs.   
  
At her side, Eltrys brought his knife out again, gripping it in one trembling hand. She smacked his wrist.   
“Put that toothpick away,” Tharya whispered. Ondolemar’s silhouette was dark against the faint torchlight dancing behind him as the guards followed. The Thalmor chuckled lightly. On either side of him, the guards filed down in two lines, entering the shrine without missing a step.    
“Oh, it isn’t for you, Dragonborn. Or even for me.” The elf lifted his head slowly, a soft sigh escaping his lips. “No, Eltrys here, a worm of a man, knows what happens to those in my city caught with their grubby hands folded in prayer to their filthy god.”   
“We weren’t praying,” Tharya spoke up immediately. “We were talking about how much we fucking hate that prick Ondolemar.” He chuckled again.   
“It matters not. You were caught  _ conspiring _ in the Shrine of Talos, which has been locked for months—did you perhaps wonder why it was unlocked? Did you ever stop to think of  _ who _ may have unlocked it for you?” Eltrys swallowed thickly as the guards surrounded them in two straight lines, the green sashes of Markarth and the gilded gold of elven armor side by side. “No, not once. You bumbling idiots fell into my trap without even looking where you were going.” Ondolemar began to turn away, wiping his gloved hands on his chest. “Being in this shrine alone is enough for me to put you both in prison. But, Dragonborn-”   
  
He paused just as Eltrys gagged on something at her side. Tharya turned to see the shining blade of his dagger now wet and dripping with blood. Another strangled noise as he drove it farther into his chest, buried it to the plain wooden hilt.   
“ _ Eltrys! _ ” She snapped, grabbing him as his knees gave way. “What the hell are you doing? Stop!” Holding him tightly she knelt on the cold stone floor, watching blood dribble from his paling lips, running in red rivers over the black forest of warpaint on his face. “What the hell did you do that for?”   
“He knows the punishment for those found guilty of Talos worship,” Ondolemar was grinning horribly from ear to ear, she knew it. She  _ heard _ it.    
“Dragon...born,” Eltrys croaked, his eyelids fluttering. Blood caked his cheeks now, stained the inside of his mouth. “Dragonborn...” Frozen with horror she smelled his last shreds of life slip away, the faint beating of his heart come to a stop. Ignoring the guards for just one moment, she clasped the man tightly to her chest, minding the dagger still sticking out of him.  _ He knows the punishment for those found guilty of Talos worship. _ And he would rather kill himself than be taken in by the Thalmor. The decision had been so quick, so easy she hadn’t even seen it take place.    
  
“Ondolemar!” She shouted suddenly, the fire in her veins unquenchable, her hatred for the Thalmor multiplying a hundredfold. “Ondolemar, you sick son of a bitch! Get your cowardly ass back here!” He was halfway up the stairs already. Carefully putting Eltrys down she stood and lunged after him-   
  
Only to meet the cold metal of a shield. Her head ricocheted backwards and her body crumpled with no direction. As one, the guards closed around her in a tight circle, each sword leveled for her twitching body.   


* * *

**_QUEST FAILED: COMPELLING TRIBUTE_ **

* * *

  
When she woke, she was somewhere else. There was a man with his hand in his trousers trying to relieve himself, and when she spoke he attacked her. When she Shouted him away an Orc appeared and shoved her outside the cell. When she only stood there, she was hit from behind and shoved forward again, and the Orc was grinning down at her. He took her face in his hands and tried to pry her lips open, for what she didn’t know. But another person came over; another Orc, shooing her attacker away. There was white warpaint on his face, his head shaved except for a thick strip that ended in a topknot on the crown of his skull. He pulled her to her feet and dragged her through the prison—except the walls were natural stone, she noted, and the floors the dirt floors of the earth, not wood. This was...an underground prison? The second Orc brought her all the way to the lowest level of the mine where a few men and women hung around a small campfire. A fire...in a prison? Why weren’t these people in cells? The distinct ringing of metal on rock filled her ears.   
  
She was brought past a wrought iron door. Down a short tunnel. Dropped unceremoniously on a wooden floor. Vaguely she smelled someone else besides herself and the Orc in here. Who? Heavy footsteps. A musky, earthy scent filled her nose, and a man with thick grey hair, a staunch and lined face, and braids in his beard leaned over her.

“Welcome, Stormcloak,” he smiled, but it was a bit of a mocking smile, a hard smile, “to Cidhna Mine.”

* * *

**_QUEST STARTED: NO ONE ESCAPES CIDHNA MINE_ **

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone, i'm starting my semester tomorrow (2/1) so an update next week may or may not happen, depending on how much writing i can get done between classes! this is the 'easy' week usually so i shouldn't be too bogged down. thank you for the patience!!


	22. XXVIII. Tooth and Claw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update everyone! :^) enjoy

**Fredas, 3nd of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 207**

The Broken Oak was quiet, as it had been their entire stay. Uncannily quiet for an inn, but as the keeper Orathr had told them, that was to be expected in the dead of winter, especially in a tiny village such as Greenfield, which was little more than a pitstop for people traveling along the road from Ivarstead to Helgen or Whiterun. Outside the clouds were grey but thin, signaling snow, but perhaps a few days from now. The common room was quiet too, except for the crackling of the fire and the occasional scraping of wood as chairs moved.   
  


Tharya surveyed her companions over the rim of her cup, watching as Miraak’s eyes fluttered closed for the fourth time and Bhijirio prodded lazily at his breakfast. Outside the sun was not yet fully risen but it was past dawn. If they left within the hour, they’d get to Whiterun this afternoon. And with those few hours to spare, she could show everyone the surprise that had been two and a half years in the making. Assuming Balgruuf had held up his end of the bargain.   
  
Finishing her tea, she tapped both hands against the table. “Finish up so we can go, gentlemen.”

“It’s  _ early _ , Sunshine,” Bhijirio groaned.   
“It’s six-thirty in the morning. I’ve woken up earlier.”   
“You live in the farming capital of Skyrim.”   
“He makes a fair argument,” Miraak grumbled. The Atmoran looked to be half-asleep, his cheek balanced on his fist, eyes closed. Tharya snorted, kicking him under the table.    
“You of all people should be used to this, big man. I’ve woken you up earlier to do less.” He merely grunted in reply and the three of them lapsed back into silence, Bhijirio slowly eating the rest of his food while Miraak nodded off. With a sigh she reached for the Priest’s other hand lying on the table, rubbing her thumb over his warm knuckles. A soft rumble of acknowledgement left him, and no more.   
  
They could make it to Whiterun today, she knew.  _ If only these lazy butts would get a move on. _ It would be cold and bitter most of the day but they could get to Riverwood by mid-afternoon, eat lunch at the inn, and then make the hour, hour and a half ride to Whiterun afterwards. Gods, she was tired too, but the rare desire to just be  _ home _ had overtaken her recently, so for now all her efforts were focused on getting there. For a while she stared at her much smaller, much paler hand sitting atop Miraak’s until the Atmoran snorted and jerked upright, his fingers closing around hers. Bhijirio looked at him curiously before breaking into lazy laughter.   
“My gods, you were really asleep,” he cackled. Miraak, looking a little disoriented, glanced around before rubbing one hand over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Wake yourself up there, big guy?”   
“No,” he grumbled, concealing a yawn with his palm. Shortly after, Bhijrio did the same, bearing sharp teeth and blinking away the tears that formed in the corners of his eyes.    
“Wow, jeez, you guys are dramatic,” Tharya laughed. Glancing under the table to where Runa sat curled between their feet, she pushed her chair back and stood. “ _ Fine _ , I will get everything ready, and you poor little babies can-” She was cut off by the front door swinging open and a stout Nord charging in, shaking powdery snow off his boots. He glanced around frantically before his eyes fell on them.   
“Ah! Guests! Where is Orathr, the innkeeper?” He asked quickly. Tharya blinked.   
“Uh, I don’t think he’s up yet.”   
“Bah! Nonsense,” the Nord sighed. “Orathr? Orathr!” He called loudly into the inn, making Bhijirio groan.   
“Hey, could you keep it down?” The Khajiit muttered.

Apparently dissatisfied with the lack of response, the newcomer turned to slap the door closed before tramping back through the common room, calling the Altmer keeper’s name repeatedly.    
“Hey,” Tharya stood from the table, feeling Miraak grip her hand like steel.   
“Do not get involved-”   
“Can I help you with something, sir?” She smiled kindly at the man, who whipped around to face her. The Atmoran groaned and slouched into his seat, muttering  _ every time _ to himself. She let go of his fingers and stepped away from the table, hearing her chair scrape as Runa plodded out behind her. The man jumped as he saw the sabre cat, gripping the front of his coat tightly. “Oh, don’t mind her. She’s friendly. What did you need?” Looking skeptically at Runa as she wrapped around Tharya’s legs, he stepped closer.   
“I’m looking for Orathr, I need to borrow his horse.”   
“What for?”   
“My wife, she...well, she’s just a baby, but the baby’s had this terrible cough for some time now. We were going to leave for Riverwood—that’s where we live, but we were here on some last minute business before the snows came.” He chuckled meekly. “With the strange seasons the past few years, I thought we’d make it back in time, but then that horrible storm swept in...” To Tharya’s surprise, Miraak spoke up, slinging one arm over the back of his chair to twist around and look at the man.   
“How old is the child?” He asked.   
“Eight months.”   
“And you say she has a cough?” The Atmoran stood from the table and she watched as the man’s eyes bulged, taking in the First Dragonborn’s full stature. Forcing his mouth closed a few times before he was able to speak, the man nodded, tugging his coat again.   
“Yessir. And there’s no healer here in Greenfield, but the apothecary in Riverwood-”   
“Bring the infant to me,” Miraak made a vague gesture with his hand.   
  
A brief silence settled between the three of them as the Nord debated in his head, looking over the giant of a man who had stood from the table. Bring the baby to  _ him? _ The one littered in scars and standing two heads taller than most people? His eyes flicked to the woman who had greeted him. She looked to be a Nord. What was this other man, a Redguard? Gods be damned if all Redguards were that tall and burly.   
“I said bring me the girl,” Miraak repeated, his lips curling into a frown. Oh, Divines, he had a short fuse. There was no way anyone would want to get mixed up with him. “Or do you not want her healed?”   
“Healed, sir?”

“Yes, I am a mage. Do not make me say it a third time.”  _ Void be damned! He’s getting angry. _   
“Yes! Just a moment, good mage. Lograld is my name-”   
“I do not care.”   
“-and my wife is still home, it may take a moment to fetch her and all the children, as we were preparing to leave for Riverwood...” he tapered off as Miraak rolled his eyes and turned to sink back into his chair. Lograld looked at Tharya, who smiled again and gave him an apologetic wave before he scurried out the door.   
  
Somewhere a door swung open and footsteps clambered down the stairs. Orathr came into view, tying a thick robe around his stomach.   
“Ah! Dragonborns,” he greeted through a wide yawn. “I thought I heard someone call for me. How can I assist?”

Tharya reached down to pet Runa as she replied, “A man was just here, looking to borrow your horse? He said his name was...Lograld.” The Altmer thought for a moment before snapping his golden fingers.   
“Lograld! I’ll bet he needs to get back to Riverwood, doesn’t he? Well, Rosie’s too old to make the journey this late in the season. She’s got a terrible limp.” He frowned.    
“How did he get here without a horse?” Tharya raised an eyebrow.   
“Queen Alsfigir, that old girl. Lograld’s not too good with animals. She caught a cold, I think, before they came here, and the journey did her in.” The frown deepened. “Now he’s got a wagon, a family, and no way to get home.”

She considered for a long moment, crossing her arms before shrugging, “My friends and I are heading to Whiterun. We could take them to Riverwood.” Another groan from Miraak. “I’ll tell him when he comes back.”   
Orathr’s ears twitched as he squinted at them, “Are you leaving us today, Dragonborn?” She nodded. “Ah, how sad! Sudina and I were thoroughly enjoying having guests.” A bright smile overtook his face. “Here, I’ll go into the pantry and see what food we can send with you.”   
“Oh, that’s really not-”   
“I insist!” Without another word he scurried off again, adjusting his robe and opening the door into the basement, vanishing into the darkness. A draft of cold air blew up and hit her legs. Behind her someone got up and started for the stairs, footsteps heavy.   
“I despise helping people,” Miraak muttered as he trudged by. 

  
She and Bhijirio followed him after a moment, branching off into their rooms to pack up. Runa settled in front of the fire again, content to sap up its warmth one more time before they left. Tharya put the bed back together before getting dressed, pulling her warm winter clothes on as Miraak released the warding on the door and windows. A thick, burgundy cotton undershirt, a white long sleeve on top of it, and then her comfortably worn leather cuirass. The cuirass itself had seen her through years of hardship and though it wasn’t as protective as actual armor, it afforded her an ease of movement crucial to a mage. She pulled her boots on next and both bracers, plated over the back of the hand and the forearm with silver for punching Draugrs, but leaving her wrists mobile. Whatever her time as a Stormcloak had taught her, the most important thing had been that she simply couldn’t fight with the stiff metal restricting her hands. And finally, her trusty ruana. Well, maybe  _ trusty _ had been the old green one that she still wondered about from time to time. This one was a good replacement either way, a calm, dark blue with a strip of pale yellow embroidery around the hem. Miraak said it added to her  _ earthy palette. _ The fabric was enchanted, of course, and the needlework was an intricate ward, so it was usually the only covering she needed in the winter, and was light enough to wear even into the summer.

  
“Hey,” she turned around to look at Miraak as he pulled one boot on. “Do you mind if we used Flindbrir for the wagon?”   
“Yes,” he replied with a grimace. “He is not a workhorse and I will not turn him into one.” Tharya bit back a sigh, searching around a moment for her pin.    
“Please?”   
“No.  _ You _ dragged me into this,  _ elskavin _ ,” he yanked the other boot up. “So I will heal the child, but you may not have my horse.”   
“What a compromise,” she snorted, crouching to rummage through the side pocket of her backpack. Where the hell was that pin? “Hey, have you seen my-”   
“Yes,” he said again, and suddenly a penannular brooch in the shape of the ancient symbol of the Dragonborn entered her vision, resting on his gloved palm. “You left it there.” He nodded behind him. Her last brooch, just like the last ruana, had been far superior, at least in her mind, compared to this one. A gleaming silver hand, the pin was set with small gemstones on each of the fingertips and the center of the palm was decorated by the pointed eye of the College of Winterhold, denoting her as Arch-Mage. Ironically enough, Miraak had been the one to knock it off during their fight in Apocrypha. Maybe she could smith a new one like it?

  
With a sigh Tharya took one last survey of the room. It was bare but welcoming, just as they had found it days ago.   
“All set?” She asked the First Dragonborn, reaching for his hand. He only hummed in reply, and together they filed out of the room and shut the door behind him.   
  
Downstairs there was a baby crying horribly, a wheezing, strained sound. Not a normal cry at all, nor a healthy one. Bhijirio was cooing at it in vain. He and Tharya broke off to follow Lograld outside, leaving Miraak with the woman and a gaggle of children.

  
“Oh, thank the gods,” she sighed. “Are you the healer?” He nodded, peering through the bundle of fur and blankets to the wailing child. Wordlessly he held out his arms and with a look of skepticism she transferred the baby to him. “Ulfra, is her name, though she’s so concerned with coughing and crying that I don’t think she quite knows that yet.”  _ Ulfra. _ Suspiciously close to  _ Ulfric. _ He was glad Tharya hadn’t stuck around, then. Miraak wandered a few feet away from the mother—Ansa, she introduced herself even as he turned his back on her—and adjusted his arms around the baby. A tiny little thing, compared to Atmoran children he’d held before. Her crying was only interrupted by a bout of wretched coughing and he turned her carefully towards his chest, stroking a gloved finger gently against her reddened cheek.    
“ _ Ulfra _ ,” Miraak whispered, testing the name on his lips. “I’m sure it would be very pretty, if it did not make me think of someone else.” The infant merely blinked up at him before unleashing a shriek and going back to crying. “You may scream all you like, darling, but I have heard worse from people older than you,” he chuckled. It took some convincing and no small amount of rocking but finally the child began to quiet, blinking as he touched his thumb to her wet cheeks to swipe her tears away. “There you are. Is that not so much better?” A little smile pulled on his mouth. “Relax, little one. I know your chest must hurt. You cough like a shaman.” This time he grinned. Ulfra surveyed him carefully, kicking her legs in her wrap before giving him a toothless smile. “Oh, you are already such a beautiful little thing, princess.” Behind him, Ansa cleared her throat.   
“You  _ are _ a healer, yes?” Her voice was strung tight with worry.   
“A mage,” he corrected without turning to her. “A child as young as this is easy to upset. I would much rather she be calm than screaming while I try to cast on her.”

The little ruddy face stared up at him in awe before the baby reached out for his chin, fingers moving carefully through his beard. Miraak grinned at the girl. "Please do not pull on that, darling, it is attached to my face," he hummed, eliciting a joyful laugh from the infant. "Yes, I know, I am quite funny.  _ Elskavin _ doesn't think so." Now both tiny hands were feeling, absently pulling on his lower lip, fascinated to see it could move. She giggled when her fingers wrapped around his nose and he made a face reflexively. All the while the woman watched this stranger coo and entertain her baby, admiring his effortless movements with the child. Obviously he'd done this before. As Miraak lifted the girl to rest on his shoulder he turned back towards the mother, planting an airy kiss on the infant's downy hair. He laid his free hand over her spine and let magicka flow from the center of his palm into Ulfra’s little body, feeling her squirm against him for a moment. He followed the movement of his healing spell until it reached where it needed to go—her chest. Her lungs, most likely. Pleurisy? An illness? Or just a winter cold? When the spell dissipated, signaling its job was done, he rubbed the infant’s back soothingly, opening his mouth to speak.

"Your children must be very blessed to have you as their father," Ansa said abruptly with a bright smile. His feet scraped to a stop and his lips fell back into a pressed line. The baby pressed her face into the warmth of his neck before giggling again and gathering the fabric of his poncho in her little fists.  _ Your children. _ What could he say to that?  _ I don't have any. I can't have any. I won't have any. _

"Thank you," he whispered instead, his gaze sliding away from the woman to fix on the window by the door. "I hope so." He had no idea what he meant by that,  _ I hope so _ , but with a familiar numbness returning to his chest he handed the baby back to the woman. She clung to his finger—and he took it as an opportunity to kiss her little hand before prying it off.

"Tharya should be ready now," he mumbled, hardly waiting for her reply before brushing by her to trudge out the door.

The start of the journey towards Helgen was slow, as the wagon was pulled through the shallow snow. Thankfully, although he hadn’t doubted it much, Tharya had spared Flindbrir and instead given Knight to Lograld’s cause, with Petunia tied to follow behind. Bhijirio sat between two children while Ansa, holding her baby, sat with the other three on the opposite bench. It took everyone some time to get warm, huddling together in the back of the wagon while talking quietly with one another. Tharya stuffed her hands into her mittens and held her arms close against her chest under her ruana. Lograld, sitting beside her on the driver’s seat, chattered endlessly about anything and everything. At one point he went off about evergreen trees and why they don’t lose life in the winter like most other trees, which of course she already knew, but remained quiet about. It was nice at first, but the longer he prattled on, the more she wondered if there was room in the back. Or even with Miraak.   
  
Taking advantage of a brief lull in Lograld’s conversation, she twisted around in the seat to glance back at the First Dragonborn. He was sitting still in his saddle, hood of his poncho pulled up so the fur framed his face, golden eyes trained on the road ahead. Occasionally he would glance into the woods or behind them to examine their tracks. Either way he looked content, if a little bored, face impassive as he rode. Just as she was ready to turn back around his eyes grazed over her and then fixed on her, a small greeting smile touching his lips. She smiled back, and watched as he shifted in the saddle and then pointed to it with one gloved hand.

_ Do you want to sit with me? _   
  
Before she could reply though, a child’s voice from the back of the wagon rose into the cold air.   
“Papa, when can we eat lunch? I’m hungry!” Lograld squinted up at the cloudy grey sky.   
“Hmm...what time would you take it for, Dragonborn?” He asked. Tharya followed his gaze upwards, drumming her hands against her knees.   
“Probably two hours to noon, give or take. Hard to tell when it’s so overcast.” She twisted to examine their surroundings. “We’re going slow, though. If you want to get to Helgen by dinnertime I’d say we should eat while we ride.”   
“Asna?” He called for his wife.   
“There’s plenty of food in the backpack, Lograld. We can eat back here, I’ll hand you something.” He considered for a moment before shrugging.   
“As you say, Dragonborn. And your companions?”   
She smiled, “I’ll take care of them.” Without another word she jumped down off the slowly rolling wagon, crunching through the snow to where Flindbrir was trotting along a few yards off to the right. The horse tossed his head in her direction as Miraak reined him to a halt. He extended his arm without saying anything and half pulled her up into the saddle in front of him. Carefully Tharya swung her leg over the other side. No way in hell would she sit side saddle. The First Dragonborn readjusted the reins, transferring them into one hand while he slipped his free arm around her waist.   
“This should be fun and exciting,” she chuckled. “Have we ever ridden together?”   
“I do not believe so,” Miraak laughed through his nose, little more than an amused exhale. “Maybe I will not be bored to death all the way to Helgen, now.” He leaned forward to give Flindbrir a hefty pat on the neck, rubbing it for a moment while speaking in smooth Atmoran to the animal. Tharya remained quiet until the horse whinnied back, ears twitching, and Miraak snorted, drawing back.    
“What did you tell him?”   
“That he is very handsome and can eat all the honey treats he wants when we get to Whiterun.” 

They rode on for silence a bit, a comfortable silence. Miraak’s torso was quick to warm her back and arms, the easy sway of his body enough to almost set her to sleep. Lograld was chatting now with Asna who leaned against the front of the carriage to speak with him. Bhijirio, while eating, was entertaining the children. After a while she felt the First Dragonborn slouch a little, a soft sigh escaping his lips, now closer to her ear.    
“Did you sleep at all last night?”   
“Hm? Oh, not really.” She echoed his sigh. “I wanted to, just couldn’t.”   
“Truly?” He chuckled and it devolved into a yawn. “I thought you did. You were in your favorite spot.”   
Tharya raised an eyebrow. “And how do you know this? Did you sleep?”   
“Very little,” he admitted. “But you were quiet, so I presumed you were able to rest.”    
“What exactly is my  _ favorite spot? _ ”   
“The left side of my chest.” He nuzzled discreetly into her hair, inhaling deeply. “You sleep there often. You should now, while there is nothing to occupy you.”    
She hummed, “Tempting, but I’d rather be awake.”   
“If that is the case, tell me more of Cidhna Mine.”

Tharya half turned to look up at him, a smile playing on her lips. So far he’d been taking all her stories in stride, listening attentively to each word. She was beginning to think her fears of scaring him off as foolish, but even so...they hadn’t reached the worst parts yet.

* * *

She hurt everywhere.   
  
Her back, her sides, her shoulders especially. Everywhere she ached and felt pain with the slightest movement, so overwhelming she could hardly stand. Yesterday the guard with the whip—aptly called  _ Snapper _ by the other prisoners—had gone too far, gotten a little too over excited to paint the canvas of her pale skin with red. It hadn’t been her own fault, truly. Amidst a bout of the shakes she had gotten exhausted and fainted, for hardly even half a minute. But the guards had been on her like flies on shit. Dragging her away from the rock, almost taking her eye out with the pickaxe she dropped. They had thrown her in the center of the prison, a small circular room in the natural, cave-like structures of Cidhna Mine, and Snapper, who lounged all day by the cells just waiting to be called into action, had cackled and gone to town. She was too tired and too sore to bother holding in her cries. The whip had hit again and again until she passed out once more, and woke up to two other prisoners dragging her back to her cell.   
  
She’d healed herself as much as she could with her hands shaking horribly and no energy to put behind her magic. For once her cellmate hadn’t accosted her or even said a word. He merely stared at her and her glowing spell before turning over and going to sleep. But the pain was too great. Her head pounded from crying and her back throbbed terribly. She couldn’t lay on her side because there was still a whiplash oozing blood, the one she’d been to exhausted to heal entirely. Lying on her stomach somehow made the pain from hunger increase tenfold, it made her feel nauseous. So she drifted on the verge of consciousness for some time, sitting upright on the dirt floor since she could do nothing else.

Until she’d been entombed in Cidhna Mine she had never lifted a pickaxe in her life. Or maybe she had, to dig into the earth, but never to pry cold, dead ore out of cold, dead walls. The others in here—mostly Forsworn, she had come to realize—had grown lean muscles and knew what they were doing. Not one of them offered help. Not one of them spared her a glance when she swayed on her feet like a loose leaf. The rhythmic  _ clang, clang _ of pickaxes on walls had faded permanently into her ears like tinnitus. She hadn’t eaten properly since before she had even come to Markarth, and the scraps of bread and stale mead tossed down to them were not distributed, simply given. All were up for grabs, and she, growing weaker by the day, was never fast enough to get her share. Her ribs were beginning to show against her skin even without her having to inhale.

And then there was Madanach.   
  
The King in Rags, most called him. The King of the Forsworn. For whatever reason he had taken a special interest in her. He always said it was because she was a Stormcloak, and therefore the only prisoner of war to be found in Cidhna Mine. He said it was because of who she served. At first she thought he was deranged but slowly his logic was becoming clear; he was brilliant, but not in a booksmart way. Brilliant in a dangerous, social way. An excellent negotiator, an excellent leader. An excellent manipulator. At first, she tried to be careful around him, but with each passing day she was caring less and less. At first she thought she could get out. Now she knew she’d die in here. Alone. Away from everyone. Her family never knowing what happened to her. Aldis, never able to see her recovery from the depths of alcoholism. Each night she prayed to her gods, the ones she told herself she went to war over, and each day they were silent. She thought of Sovngarde and Torygg and Jurgen Windcaller, and remembered the gentleness of the afterlife, the feeling of weightlessness experienced at every moment, the feeling of calm. She begged for Shor to come, but he didn’t.

Tonight her quasi-slumber was interrupted by Borkul, the Orc with white markings on his face that she had come to know as Madanach’s right hand. Borkul was the only one who didn’t get whipped if he didn’t work the stone. The only one who got first pickings of their food. He was like a guard within the ranks of the prisoners: everyone feared him, listened to him, and never talked back. He was standing at the door of her cell with an  _ actual _ guard who was unlocking it for him. Something she had become quickly accustomed to in Cidhna Mine was the power imbalance. Guards opening a cell for another inmate? Some prisoners allowed to laze around while others were whipped within an inch of their life for even blinking wrong? It had boggled her mind at first, but now it was just another fucked up thing in a fucked up world.   
“Stormcloak,” Borkul said, “get up.” Tharya was still for a long moment before raising her head to look at the Orc. “I said up. Madanach wants to see you.”  _ Of course he does. _ Biting down an anguished moan she crawled to her feet, leaning on the wall for support. Borkul and the guard watched her, both looking impassive and maybe a bit condescending, but she was too tired to care. With agonizing slowness she hobbled over to them, almost crying out in pain when Borkul caught her arm and the guard closed the door behind them.   
“Not too long,” the man said in a low voice, and remained by the cell as she and the Orc walked away. Well, he walked. She stumbled like a drunk going home in the small hours of morning, chewing her lip viciously to refrain from crying.

The trek to Madanach’s room felt like it took years, and by the time she had nearly blacked out twice, Borkul half-dragging her lifeless body along with him, she was set to stand by herself in the center of the room. It had a low ceiling, and was split into two sections by a wooden dais on one end with a bed—a real featherbed, she noted, with sheets and a pillow—and a desk, while the other half was dirt like the rest of the mine. It held a bookshelf, surprisingly well-stocked, and a suspicious looking empty patch of wall.   
“Stormcloak,” he didn’t look up from his writing when he greeted her, but he did once she failed to return the courtesy. She had come to learn he hated being ignored or interrupted, and expected a reply to anything spoken directly to someone. The man, just past the prime of middle age but still strong and muscled, his hair thick even if it was grey, turned towards her in his chair, setting his quill down. “Stormcloak.”   
“Yes, sorry,” she whispered, unable to conjure anything louder from her raw throat. “You wanted to see me?”   
“Hm?”   
She cleared her throat and winced, “You wanted to see me?” Madanach looked her over once before snorting. Did he find her sorry state amusing? Maybe she would too, if she wasn’t half dead and in dire need of a bath.    
  
But he didn’t reply. He stood from his desk and clasped his hands behind him, stalking towards her until they stood eye-to-eye. The native Reachmen were shorter than Nords, she had come to realize, and didn’t share in Nordic pale complexion. More like Bretons, shorter and tanner, with flatter noses. Madanach’s silence was just as unnerving as his stare; usually he spoke at great length, and though he was a great speaker, Tharya couldn’t help but feel he was a little long-winded. No matter what, whenever he went off on another history lesson about the Reach, the natives, and Ulfric's actions years ago, Madanach would always remind her that Ulfric was  _ hers _ . He always called Ulfric  _ your leader _ ,  _ your king _ , and at first she contested it. And then he would remind her that she was indeed following him willingly, she wasn't pressed into his service, which meant she supported his beliefs and his ideals. Madanach made her take responsibility for Ulfric, and over time, she began to realize it was not a burden she was willing to shoulder.   
  
“Stormcloak, why do you fight?” Ah, yes. The million septim question. He’d asked her countless times since her arrival in Cidhna Mine, and each time she had given a different answer. But she was all out of answers now, so it was time to recycle the old ones.   
“For my gods,” she croaked back.    
“Is that so? Just for your gods?” He raised a skeptical eyebrow.   
“Is there any greater purpose than defending one’s religion?”    
“Your leader seems to think the very existence of the Nord people is at stake. Does he not fight for that, then? You claim to fight for your gods, but is that what your leader fights for?” She resisted the urge to groan. Was this really what he’d called her down here for? Another philosophical debate?

Swallowing, she spoke again: “I don’t know what Ulfric fights for. But I’m fighting for my gods.” _I fight so that all the fighting I’ve done was not in vain. I fight because I must._   
“And what of the Thalmor?”  
“What of the Thalmor?” Irritation tweaked her voice before it lapsed back into a weak rasp. “I hate the Thalmor.”  
“So do you fight because you hate the Thalmor or for your gods?”  
“Can’t they coexist?”  
  


Madanach sighed like a disappointed schoolteacher before stepping away and beginning to walk in a slow circle around her. Once behind her, he stopped, his voice loud and full against the back of her head.   
“There is only one reason people fight, Stormcloak,” he boomed, “only one reason. You may think it a multi-faceted thing, but in truth we all fight for one thing. Whether we know it or not.” She grimaced.   
“Then what do  _ you _ fight for?”   
“Justice.” Her grimace twisted into a frown. If he could fight for such a simple reason, why couldn’t she? “But you don’t fight for your gods, or out of hate for the elves, Stormcloak.”   
“The  _ Thalmor _ ,” she growled, feeling a fleeting burst of energy enter her body. “The elves are not the Thalmor.” Still behind her, Madanach chuckled darkly. After a moment of silence he began to circle her again, crossing in front of her without stopping.

  
“I’ll tell you why you fight, Stormcloak, since you seem to delude yourself with a multitude of reasons instilled in you by your oppressive culture.” He sniffed. “You fight simply because you were told to. You lack true purpose as a living thing, Stormcloak. You lack a compass, a goal. You don’t know what you want. Therein lies your danger,” he chuckled and came to a stop just at her side, standing shoulder to shoulder with her now. “Those with no compass become desperate, and desperate people will abandon reason and trust the first person to tell them where true north lies.”  _ More analogies, great. _ “That is what your precious leader Ulfric is doing. He fights because he thinks he’s right, but his cause is built upon the backs of spineless, compass-less minions like yourself, Stormcloak. And your spinelessness had led you to the  _ wrong cause. _ But as a horse with blinders, you are unable to see it, so compressed by your own people. Your own people even threw you in here like an animal,” he sneered. “So, I ask you again, Stormcloak. Why do you fight?”

Her jaw tightened as he turned towards her. She could punch the daylights out of him right here and now, but then where would that get her? A bloody death at the hands of all his Forsworn underlings right here in the mine?  _ Well, maybe that isn’t so bad. _ No, maybe not. Sovngarde awaited her. Comfort and a carefree existence awaited her. Warmth. The company of greatness personified.  _ Why do I fight? _   
“I don’t know,” she whispered, finally finding the words she supposed he wanted to hear. And she was right. Madanach reached out to grab her shoulder.   
“Ah, finally. The horse shakes the blinders away to reveal the world of true north,” he grinned.  _ Comparing me to a horse? _ Madanach nodded once, somberly. “It’s taken less time for you to grasp the concept of your inferiority. Most people it would take a lifetime. Maybe more,” the King in Rags chuckled at her, but she couldn’t find it within herself to mirror it. “Your fellow Nords have turned you into a mindless creature, Stormcloak. In turn, you fight for them, mindlessly, and bleed for them, mindlessly. You’ll die for them, too.” He said it with such finality it sent a shiver down her spine. Not at the thought of dying, but... Madanach peered at her. “Death doesn’t frighten you, Stormcloak.” He moved closer, and then reached out to hold her face in both of his rough, dirt-stained, calloused hands. “Odd. Most of your kinsmen fear the end, even as they shout of Sovngarde and glory. But not you.”   
  
In that moment, she hated him. She hated that somehow she was finding truth in his words. All she ever feared was insignificance. She didn’t care about death; Shor would take her where she was deemed fit to go, and that would be that. She couldn’t question the gods. But to become so small, so useless that not even one person remembered her or her deeds, to become so purposeless, to become  _ obsolete _ , that terrified her. So what did she do? Leapt to the first purpose that presented itself. Ulfric. Why did she fight? She didn’t know. Maybe for her gods, maybe because she hated the Thalmor. Why else would she be constantly moving, constantly doing something? Why else would she always be doing things for others? Most often at her own expense?    
  
She didn’t recognize the tightness in her throat until it was too late and her tears came pouring out of her tired, heavy eyes, stinging the dirty cuts and bruises on her cheeks as they slid down to wet Madanach’s fingers. A wretched sob left her.   
“It is not an easy revelation to have, little Nord,” he cooed softly, and if she didn’t know him and the way he spoke she would almost think he was trying to comfort her. But she did know him and his way with words, so all she heard were the words of a patronizing old man. He wiped at her tears with his thumbs and then, to her surprise, even hugged her. She was too weak and too tired to do anything about it and, gods, no one had held her in ages.  _ You’re such a sorry animal _ , she told herself.  _ A goddamn emotional puppetmaster hugs you and all you can think about is how nice it feels to be held. You should be killing this man. _ Just as easily as he hugged her he let go and stepped away, sitting at his desk again exactly as he had been when she walked in.

  
“I like you, Stormcloak,” he said plainly. What did that mean—that she was easy to manipulate or simply the attentive audience he’d been lacking for so long? Did he actually enjoy her company? She doubted that. “Is there something I can do for you?” He peered up at her. She blinked in surprise. Madanach, King in Rags, would...would do her a  _ favor? _ He stared at her and then tapped his desk, quietly demanding an answer.   
“O-oh. No.” Tharya swallowed again and wiped her cheeks dry.  _ Stupid idiot, crying in front of someone like him. _ “Well...could I get a different cell? Or cellmate?” Suddenly the king of the Forsworn bellowed out a laugh, slapping his knee as if she’d told a joke.   
“Ah, Haglar, yes. I know him. Unfortunate soul.” She tried to smile. “Not much I can do about him or his habits, though. Cell changes aren’t within my control.”  _ How? You control everything else here. _ “Though...” he trailed off in a promising tone. “If you go for a round with Borkul, he may lend you his cell for a bit.”   
  
_ Go for a round...? _ She contemplated the words in her brain before pressing her lips into a tight line. Good gods, Borkul? In bed? With her? He was twice her size and a head taller. Maybe if she didn’t feel like death walking she would’ve actually entertained the idea, but she wasn’t one to sell her dignity just for a better cell. All cells besides the one she was standing in were the same; dirt floor, a hay pile or wooden pallet to sleep on if you were lucky, and a bucket to piss in. She wasn’t one to sell her dignity, but if she stayed in this prison much longer, she had a feeling her dignity would start to devalue quicker than she could blink. 

“You don’t see how he eyes you? You’re fresh meat, Stormcloak. And Borkul is notoriously carnivorous.” Madanach laughed, and this time she had the distinct feeling he was not laughing with her. He wasn’t going to give her anything. “If that’s all you want-” desperately she tried to think of something else he could do for her. Anything? Was there anything? Could he-   
“Get me out?” She blurted the words before she could stop it, and his head shot up to catch her gaze in a gridlock. For a long time he stared at her as if she’d walked in on him bathing or stealing, before looking away and back down to his writing.

“Run along back to your cell, Stormcloak. Sometimes we deal with the hand given to us,” suddenly his voice was hard, “and I’m no priest laying about to take lost babies in.”

Without a word she did as told, limping back down the stone corridor to where Borkul was waiting to let her out. This time she did feel his eyes on her as they trudged back to her cell, felt his eyes examining her from behind. Strangely, though, he didn’t act on it. Wouldn’t it be so easy for him? He was obviously stronger than her, and in better shape. She was nearly unconscious while standing up and too broken and battered to even entertain the idea of fighting him off. The thought haunted her as the guard let her back into the cell and absently she muttered a  _ thanks _ , slumping onto the dirt floor again and falling into a shallow sleep.

* * *

Three days later, there was a cave-in. Part of an already unstable tunnel collapsed on a group of miners tasked with the unfortunate duty of shoring up more scaffolding to make everything safe to dig. It felt almost like an earthquake, waking her from the daytime trance of swinging her pickaxe weakly against the stone. Guards flooded in, shouting to each other, while the other prisoners gathered around in a loose circle. She could smell the blood and crushed flesh, the sharpness of broken bones. A cloud of brown dust was settling at the dark mouth of the tunnel.

  
“Shor’s bones,” one guard said, none too quietly, planting his foot on the rock closest to him. “We just lost four good axes, we did.” Her guts churned at that. Was that all the people in here were to them? Bodies to swing an axe, day in and day out?   
“When has bringing more people in ever been a problem for us, eh?” Another man laughed near him. Slowly Tharya hobbled towards one of the other prisoners, a man she’d come to know Braig. “Ah,” one of the guards caught sight of her and turned, puffing out his chest and hips and leaning one hand on the pommel of his axe. “This one especially. You know, if she wasn’t a twiggy little bitch I’d take her out back...” he grinned toothily at her. “Isn’t that right, princess?”   
“Get away from me,” she grumbled, swatting his hand. He growled something and his hand shot out again, fingers wrapping tightly around the delicate column of her neck.    
“What was that,  _ princess? _ ” He hissed, jostling her around. “You think you’re the shit, huh? I been looking for you.” A grotesque grin pulled at his dry lips, and with his free hand he reached for his belt.

Immediately she started kicking at him, shouting obscenities. A few hits landed on him, and the desperate urge to Shout this whole place into Oblivion grew stronger each second. But wouldn’t that cause an even larger collapse, bring the whole mine, or even the whole city down? Oh, Divines, what did she care about that? Bring the whole goddamn place crumbling down, it would probably be doing the rest of Skyrim a big favor. And if she let the rocks crush the life out of her bones, then there would be Sovngarde waiting for her, sweet, calm Sovngarde...   
“Looky here, bitch,” the guard was waving a small leatherbound book in her face. “This yours? Yeah. The ones upstairs had a nice look through it. Dragonborn, eh?” Her blood ran cold.  _ Dragonborn. They know you’re the Dragonborn.  _ Her leg froze midair and fell back. “Oh, yeah, baby. We know  _ everything. _ You workin’ for Ulfric, too? A fucking drunk, and you’re the hero of Skyrim?” He threw his head back to let out a roaring laugh. Behind him the other guard looked utterly confused—so only the upper management knew about it? Not the guards?  _ Who could be upper management, though? _

_ The Silver-Bloods. _ The name flashed through her head in a mere instant, but it was enough. She had no doubt the Silver-Bloods were the ones. They had put Madanach and the other Reachmen in Cidhna Mine, anyway, and they probably had half the city guard on payroll...which meant they knew all about her from her journal. If word wasn’t out yet, it would be incredibly soon. And she’d be disgraced, ostracized. Half of Skyrim would turn against her and the other half would slap her face on posters and banners and rally around cries of  _ Dragonborn! Dragonborn! _ in battle. She couldn’t afford to divide the country like that. Her home. As far as people knew, the Dragonborn had returned from her duty of killing Alduin and then vanished back into obscurity—stories had spread quickly from Whiterun, the central location of national trade, especially in the height of summer when the crops were bountiful and roads well-traveled. Gods, if they all knew...   
  
The guard let go of her throat and laughed again when she merely stood there in shock, but the sound was mellow and faint to her ears. The Silver-Bloods had to die, and that journal, that journal had to be destroyed.

Her body moved in an instant just as the man undid the binding of the journal and flipped casually through the pages. The second guard cried out as a warning a second too late; she grabbed the book with both hands.   
“Destroy yourself!” She screamed, the words painfully loud in such a tight space.   
“What the hell-” The man was cut off by the book exploding into ominous purple flame, catching the front of his uniform. A second explosion, this one much bigger, as the Nord who had been holding it caught fire and just like the book, was reduced to ash in the blink of an eye as his shouts faded out of existence. The scent of burning flesh and leather wafted up from the glowing pile of lavender ash at her feet. Tharya ignored it, though. There was no time to waste. She had to protect her identity, protect  _ Skyrim _ . When she turned to the other prisoners they all gave her a wide berth, but she didn’t care.  _ The Silver-Bloods. _ She knew someone else who would want revenge on the Silver-Bloods. Behind her the second guard started to shout and drew his sword, but another prisoner sent a pickaxe through his head.

Stalking quickly towards Madanach’s room as others around her fled to the site of the collapse to see what all the commotion was, she reached past Borkul and snatched the iron door open herself.    
“Hey!” The Orc bellowed, grabbing her by the arm. But she trudged in, dragging him behind her.    
“Madanach!” Her voice hit the group gathered in the King’s shoddy stone chamber like a tidal wave even as Borkul kept trying to drag her out. “How do I kill the Silver-Bloods?” Silence. “Well?!” After a moment she examined the others in the room; most of their faces she’d seen before, but names escaped her. All Reachmen. Madanach waved one hand and Borkul reluctantly backed off but didn’t let go of her.    
“That is a burdensome mission, Stormcloak,” he said slowly. “Why?”   
“Does it matter? I need them dead,” she snapped. “All of them.” Instead of replying, Madanach stood slowly from his desk and lifted his open book to retrieve something from under it. When he turned back to her, he was holding the pin for her ruana, the silver hand of the Arch-Mage of Winterhold.    
“This is all I was able to get of your belongings, Stormcloak.” He took a few steps and extended the pin towards her. “But I heard whispers of a journal being coveted by Thonar Silver-Blood.”   
“He’s read it, and he needs to die,” she said lowly, wrapping her hand tightly around the pin. All she had left was this pin, now. “They all do.”   
“Yes,” Madanach nodded slowly, keeping his eyes on her. “What’s the commotion outside?”   
“A cave-in in the new tunnel,” she said impatiently. “Do I have to repeat myself?”    
  
The King in Rags stared at her before breaking out into a hearty laugh, ambling back to his desk to sit. She felt her anger grow.   
“I see the dragon in you now, Stormcloak,” he mused, smiling at her with the satisfaction of a bully who had excited the exact response they wanted from a victim.  _ The dragon in you. _ Did he know too? Somehow?  _ Had he read the journal? _ “Why hide that ferocity under the facade of an average woman? Why not let it flourish?”   
“The Silver-Bloods!” She barked, feeling her nails dig hotly into her palm. “I know you’re connected to them somehow. I need to  _ kill them. _ ”   
“Yes, yes, I heard,” he waved her off. “You’re just in time. My...compatriots and I were just discussing a rather delicate matter that, if you choose to join us, would bring you the revenge you deserve.” Madanach nodded staunchly once.   
Tharya looked around at all of them, shifting impatiently on her feet. “Well?”

“Stormcloak,” he steepled his fingers again. “How would you feel...” Madanach surveyed the chamber and the faces of his kinsmen, and then locked his gaze on her. “How would you feel about getting out of this place?”


	23. XIX. The Judge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow sorry for the late update! i meant to post this on valentine's day for y'all but got super busy. but today's my birthday, so consider this a gift from me to you :^)

Miraak waited quietly for her to resume talking but she didn’t. The sound of a long yawn met his ears and Tharya arched her back away from him to stretch; he loosened his arm to let her do so, heaving a sigh himself.   
“I am glad you did not give yourself to Borkul,” he murmured after a moment. She settled back against his chest and pulled his arm snugly over her middle again.   
“Why’s that?”   
“Because you would have regretted it,” Miraak narrowed his eyes against the grey winter afternoon. “And it means at such a low point in life, you at least believed yourself worthy of something more. And he would not have treated you well,” he added that last part softly, more to himself, but since she was so close she heard it over the sounds of the wagon and the horses. After a few moments of silence she sighed again and turned her cheek against the cold fabric of his poncho.   
“I think I’ll take you up on that nap,” she mumbled, shifting to get comfortable. “If you won’t be too lonely.”   
“No,  _ elskavin _ , sleep,” he gave her a little squeeze as he spoke. “We still have some hours of travel ahead of us, at this gods forsaken pace.” Tharya chuckled a little, patting his wrist.   
“Almost there, big guy,” she promised, and then yawned again. “Wake me up if you need anything.”   
“As you say.” He bowed his head to press a kiss to her hair, cold as the bitter air around them. "Sleep well, little one."

As he predicted, the journey to Helgen dragged on for three more dreadful cold, fatally boring hours. Only once he considered waking Tharya just to do  _ something _ , but thought better of it. She needed the rest. It looked as though Bhijirio was asleep too, with some of the children, but Lograld and Ansa remained awake and chatted with one another. He thought of going into a meditation where he could talk with Vahlok and Morokei, but that required a copious amount of magical energy.  _ Not that you are expending that energy on anything else _ , he snorted to himself. Miraak liked to consider himself a hard person to bore, what with Tharya’s energetic tendencies or the fact that he was almost  _ always _ thinking about four different things at once. Usually all unrelated. But now he was only thinking of how much his lower back was going to hurt the moment he got off his horse and how incredibly hungry he was. Truthfully, he had gotten to the point where he was almost always hungry in some capacity.  _ Likely not a good thing, Althëasson. _ Without thinking he shook his head at himself.   
  
The sun dipped behind them, sending long, hazy shadows against the thin layer of snow on the stone road. Greenfield had been almost completely snowed in but the moment they left the town on the horizon the snow had more or less vanished. Lograld commented on it multiple times but Miraak kept quiet; it was indeed strange, but he knew exactly why it was so. Apparently Afreik’s reach focused only on an epicenter of sorts and got weaker the farther from that center it went. That, or he hadn’t been displaying his full strength.  _ What have you got yourself into now, boy? _ Morokei’s words—spoken all too often to him as a child, a habit which didn’t subside even into his adulthood—echoed in the back of his head, either mocking him or warning him, he didn’t know. The Atmoran heaved a sigh and let his back slouch so he could put his chin on Tharya’s head, relishing the relief that flooded his spine and muscles after being kept straight as a board for so long.  _ I don’t know yet, Paidir. But I will find out.  _ He closed his eyes for a long moment, feeling the thrum of Tharya’s magical aura, soft and unassuming as she slept. And then a barrage of thoughts, all at once as he inhaled:

_ Why did Afreik try to harm her? The scratch on her cheek, was that truly all he was able to manage? How did I know from simply touching it that he had tried to take her life, how could I have known that? It was just a scratch, thin as paper. Yet it felt like him...but I do not even know what he feels like. What does he gain from killing her? My emotional demise, perhaps? Is she just a nuisance to him? _ And, most clearly:  _ If he, a legendary god, was trying to kill her,  _ **_why didn’t he succeed?_ **   
  
It wasn’t a thought he enjoyed having. In fact, it almost felt traitorous to question why Afreik hadn’t been able to take her life as she sat alive in his arms, but it was a question he had to consider. A god, an ancient and all-powerful god, had gone after her, and yet all that came from his efforts was a tiny scratch on the cheek that had been healed with hardly even a drip of magic. She wasn’t an Atmoran, nor did she subscribe to any Atmoran traditions or holy days, nor did she worship the Atmoran gods. She had no connection to his homeland whatsoever, so it stood, by process of elimination, that Afreik simply wanted her gone because he viewed her as a threat, and viewed her death as the best way to break Miraak down.   
  
Which, of course, was correct.   
  


The First Dragonborn opened his eyes again, groaning softly as he saw the scenery around them had hardly changed from the entire day’s ride. Tharya’s death, and a world without her in it, was not something he would give energy to think about; it would only turn his mood foul. He would not give energy, either, to the utter devastation he envisioned for himself should Afreik’s attempts—as he was sure there would be more—ever come to fruition. What did the gods want with him, anyway? They were long buried under the ice of his homeland, unable to speak, unable to work their magic in the mortal world. Their last act had been to try and save Atmora, so each legend said, and in doing so they’d been pulled deep into the continent’s crust and trapped there.

_ What has the power to trap a god? _ The answer came to him with shocking speed, pulled out of a deep part of his brain and thrown to the forefront haphazardly:  _ Another god. _   
  
Suddenly aware of eyes on him, Miraak straightened out and cast his eyes to his right only to meet Bhijirio’s inquisitive gaze. He liked Bhijirio, but the Khajiit was far too observant for his own good. If there was anything he hated more than Daedra, it was someone  _ knowing _ about him,  _ assuming _ his feelings, trying to get a read on him. Because they never could, which was good, but it always led to pestering, to questions, questions, questions, which was bad and not to mention incredibly infuriating. Luckily Bhijirio was smart enough to keep his questions to himself, or went to Tharya with them. Bitterly the Atmoran chuckled to himself and looked away. First he had complained of boredom, and now he had overthought himself directly into an awful mood. Something he seemed to be very good at doing. Now certain of the scowl painting his face—the kind that made Tharya reach up and pull his cheeks into some ugly monster cousin to a smile, which quite possibly made him even more irate—he set his eyes on the woods crawling up the Throat of the World to the right of the wagon, and the sprawling foothills that eventually flattened out into Falkreath Hold on the left.    
  
Another half-hour dragged by and finally,  _ finally _ , he saw the top of a stone wall from the crest of the last hill they climbed. The closer they got, the more the wall grew. Two banners hung from it, and though he couldn’t make out their color in the twilight, he could see the distinct figure of an anvil in white, with a hammer silhouetted in the center of it. There was a large set of wooden doors closing off a wide arch, probably just tall enough for him to ride under. Somewhere past the wall a short tower rose above the rest of the town. They’d finally made it to Helgen. Miraak had no doubts that if it weren’t for this ridiculous escort mission Tharya had set them on, the town he’d be joyfully approaching at this moment would be Riverwood, not Helgen. Maybe even Whiterun. But he had learned a long time ago it was more than difficult to talk her out of things she set her mind to.   
  
The huge doors were swung open just enough to let them in as they approached. Miraak pulled Flinbrir to a halt, careful not to jostle Tharya, and let the wagon pass him by. Then he trailed it into the center of the town, coming to another stop just beside the family's wagon, the sun far below the mountains now. He breathed a soft sigh of relief and readjusted his hood, surveying the town. It seemed to be enclosed partially by a circular wall, with a sprawling keep taking up the southeast part of the town, where they had entered, and the foot of the Throat of the World on the north. Helgen. It was...smaller and sleepier than he imagined it to be. It was hard to believe this was where it all started, where Tharya had been set on her brilliant journey as the Last Dragonborn. Along the north and west sides there were homes and shops, two streets, one behind the other. The keep had an outer wall that opened into the town with another large arch and wooden doors that were swung open into a narrow yard. Two banners of azure hung against the stone, with a white acorn stemming from a short branch with two leaves sprouting from below. A pleasant, pale yellow embattled each banner around the edges. Azure, the color of loyalty, wisdom and stability. Pale yellow—enlightenment, honor. White for peace. And acorns. Acorns, an everlasting symbol of antiquity, strength, and knowledge.

_ Torygg chose well. _

The High King had made his intentions to dispel the usage of the red Imperial banners clear shortly after his second ascension to the throne. It had taken quite some time, Miraak heard, to settle on a new design for Skyrim’s heraldry, but this...this looked good. The anvil and hammer must be the symbol of Helgen, then. He imagined if Tharya were awake she would approve.

"This is Helgen," Lograld said, hopping down off the wagon. "Riverwood is still-"

"An hour ride north, I am aware," Miraak cut him off, adjusting his arm around the Last Dragonborn. "I trust you can see to yourselves." Lograld blinked at him before nodding and sulking away. A man in steel armor decorated with a rich azure sash and cloak emerged from the keep's yard, his hair a honey brown and skin a light tan. An Imperial? He walked determinedly away from the keep and glanced at them, only to look again and come to a stop. His eyes were trained on Tharya. Feeling a frown pull at his lips Miraak tightened the reins around his fist, making Flindbrir toss his head and draw back a few steps.

"Dragonborn!" The man called, now squinting at them in the pale light. Who was he?  _ For a woman who claims to have no friends, everyone in Skyrim seems to know you, elskavin. _

The Atmoran sighed and gave the Nord in his grasp a gentle shake.

"Stay still," he murmured against her hair, only a little surprised when he got a soft yawn in reply.

"Hm?"

"We are in Helgen," he wrapped one hand around the horn of his saddle and eased himself over before setting both feet on the ground. Gods, his ass hurt. "Lean for me, little one."

"Dragonborn! Is that you?" The man was approaching now.

"Who's calling for me?" She mumbled.

"I do not know." Miraak tucked one arm below her legs and wrapped the other around her waist, pulling her down off the saddle and into his hold. "But he is coming this way."

"Can I pretend to be asleep?" Tharya put her hands around his neck and let her cheek fall into his shoulder. "I don't feel like talking right now."

"As far as I am aware, you are asleep," he chuckled lightly.

"Dragonborn!" The man in armor was upon them now. Miraak raised an eyebrow.

"Yes?" He stopped and looked curiously at the Atmoran and then at the woman in his arms.

"Oh, I...you must be the Dragonborn everyone is talking about." He smiled. "The other one." Miraak stifled a groan. How had he fallen so far? To simply be known as  _ the other one? _

"I am the First Dragonborn, yes," he replied stiffly. "And I would ask you to keep your voice down."

The man glanced at Tharya again, frowning. "Is she hurt?"

"Asleep."

"Ah." A warm smile overtook him. "I trust the journey has been long. My name is Hadvar," Miraak felt her twitch at that, gripping the back of his neck tightly. "I'm certain she'll remember me, though our few meetings were somewhat...well, nevermind. Are you staying the night, my lord?"  _ My lord? _ That was refreshing. No one had called him  _ my lord _ in four millennia. It brought with it a wave of nostalgia and pleasant egotism.

"Yes."

"Then you shall stay in the keep!" Hadvar gestured to the hulking stone figure backlit by the sliver of a moon. "It's the least I can do for the Dragonborn. The Dragonborns," he corrected himself quickly.

At that moment Bhijirio lifted the last child off the wagon and hefted his greatsword over his back again, striding towards them with his saddlebags in his arms.

"Did I hear something about staying in the keep?" The Khajiit said lowly. Hadvar smiled at him, too, extending a hand.

"But of course. Friends of the Dragonborns are all but welcome. What's your final destination, my lord?"

"Whiterun," Miraak said flatly. "We leave tomorrow."

"Excellent! You're just in time for dinner then. Please, follow me, and you'll be shown to your rooms. Your horses will be attended to as well." Without another word he turned on his heel and strode back to the keep, humming to himself joyfully. Bhijirio glanced at Tharya before looking up at Miraak.

" _ My lord? _ " He snorted as they fell into step behind Hadvar. 

"He said it first," the Dragonborn replied, a grin twitching at his mouth. "Who am I to deny such courtesy?"

Parts of Helgen Keep looked old but parts of it looked, and felt, newer, rebuilt in recent years. When prompted Hadvar told them it had been partially destroyed six years ago when Alduin attacked, the morning of a scheduled execution. Most of the town had suffered the same fate, though wooden houses and thatch roofs were easy to rebuild. A stone keep was not, and thus it was only recently completed, with some of the newer sections still under interior renovation—just in time for Skyrim to leave the Empire. Their rooms were one beside the other in a small guest wing. It was, after all, a stronghold and one of two military bases in Falkreath. Hadvar explained that forts all over Skyrim were being renovated and restored.

  
“Of course, the Imperials took care of Fort Greymoor in Whiterun for us during the war,” he said with a little laugh. “But I heard Whiterun has also finally rebuilt their western watchtower and Whitewatch Tower. Balgruuf says the city walls are next, but, I don’t suspect he has the funding for that just yet.” Miraak paid little mind to whatever the Imperial said, instead examining the surroundings they passed through and feeling Tharya lapse back into sleep in his arms. At long last Hadvar stopped by one door. “This room should be well enough for you and yours, Dragonborn. You, my good man, will be just down the hall...” he patted Bhijirio on the shoulder and led him further.

The room was indeed well enough for the both of them. Smaller than he had imagined it to be, but comfortable at the very least. Long, narrow windows decorated the wall opposite the door, two on each side of a curtained archway that led, it looked, into a bathroom. There was a fireplace with two brown chairs, a half-empty bookcase, and a clean desk. A rug sat centered in the room. The bed was made of light cypress wood with four spires rising from each corner, and thick azure covers with white pillows. Carefully Miraak pushed the door closed with his foot and examined the chamber. Nords truly had no sense of extravagance anymore. Surprising, then, that they claimed ancestry of the most extravagant, expensive people of the ancient world. This room would maybe be fit for a local lord or noble, but a Priest wouldn’t be caught dead in it. Nonetheless he set Tharya down and pulled her boots off carefully, sliding the pin out of her ruana and slipping it off before pulling the sheets over her.   
  


His feet took him to the bathroom, with smaller windows and a granite tub that vaguely resembled a sarcophagus. He could put that aside, though, for the steaming hot water already sitting there waiting for him. Miraak had no idea how or when Hadvar had ordered this, but either way he was grateful for it. The boots came off first, and then everything else, tossed in a haphazard pile by the vanity dresser in the corner. With a snap of his fingers every candle in the room lit simultaneously, giving off a mellow golden light. The Dragon Priest circled the tub slowly, raising his arms to stretch and submitting to the yawn that pulled his jaw open.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement and immediately bristled, ice crawling over his hands. Carefully he took a step back and surveyed the room, before his eyes fell on a mirror. 

" _ Mea Deus, _ " he groaned after a moment. "Jumping at your own reflection now, old man?" The mirror was rather plain but full length and propped up on a silver leg in the corner. He lingered a moment, feeling the ice dissipate just as quickly as it appeared, and examined himself in the glass. It didn't fit all of him—maybe if he took a few steps back? Ah. There it was. " _ Mea Deus, _ " he muttered again, touching the long stubble on his jaw. It was more of a beard now, when was the last time he'd shaved? And his hair, by the Mighty, what a wreck. The ends were starting to get curly, more strands were starting to fall over his forehead. It didn't look  _ bad, _ necessarily. Rugged, but not bad. Less neat than he would’ve liked it. He definitely needed to cut his hair though. 

The candlelight illuminated him in a soft, burnished gold light, sending gradient shadows across his body in the mirror. It would make a nice painting, if only he had the canvas—or the paint—for it. Absently he lifted a hand to touch the three pronged scar on his chest, tracing each raised line lightly. Afreik's words wandered back to him:  _ You are soft, Priest. _ Soft and weak. When he glanced up at his reflection a second time he saw not himself but a ghost of a man who shared his face, his body, his height, his eyes. A spectre who shared his visage but who he knew was the farthest thing from what he was now—soft, weak. No, the man in the mirror was hard and ruthless. Just like the man on the mountain had been. A man who slept, bathed, and walked in riches, with concubines to warm his bed, a man who held the Cult-controlled world in the very palm of his hand. A man who created spells and even modified the Thu'um. A man who pulled the puppet strings of others to his whims. 

Ah, but he had been young then. When he blinked the reflection he was shown was just himself. His soft, weak self. He had been young then, and now he was so very, very old.    
  
Pushing all the cluttered thoughts from his mind Miraak stepped into the coffin of a tub and sank into the hot water with a disappointed sigh as his feet hit the edge. Not that he had expected himself to fit anyway, but he sometimes hoped. He outstretched both legs and lifted them to rest on the opposite ledge of the tub, crossing one ankle over the other. The water rippled between his stomach and thighs. How in Æsa's name could he take a bath when he didn't even fit in the tub properly? His torso and arms, lying atop the sides of the tub, remained dry, and most of his legs would be the same in just a few minutes. With a groan he let his head fall back. 

It would be nice to fit in a bath for once.

  
  


**Loredas, 4th of Sun’s Dusk**

Their start the second day was considerably later than the first, but it came with a hindrance of its own: snow.

Tharya watched it fall around Helgen in fat, drifting flakes. It was just a flurry for now, but it was catching on the ground and it would build up as the day went on. Still, so close to home she could almost feel it, she wasn’t going to let them waste another minute. It was not long to Riverwood and from there the slow-moving wagon of Lograld and Ansa wouldn’t be hindering them any longer, so they could make quick time to Whiterun.    
“Dragonborn!” Pulling her hood up, she turned to see Hadvar approaching, wrapping his cloak tighter around him. The new colors of Skyrim, a rich azure and shining silver, were the perfect antithesis to the colors of the Empire, red and black, though she worried they may be too reminiscent of Stormcloak banners.    
“Hadvar, good to see you again,” she extended her hand to him. “Sorry I slept through dinner last night.”   
“Hardly something worthy of an apology, Dragonborn,” he squeezed her palm between both of his. “I can’t persuade you to stay for lunch, can I?”   
She laughed into the bitter morning air. “Unfortunately not. I have to get these people to Riverwood.”   
“Ah, well, if the snow gets too bad, you can always turn around,” he smiled happily at her. “Tell me, is that truly...the First Dragonborn?” Brown eyes wandered across the center of town to where Miraak and Bhijirio were chatting—rather, Bhijirio was talking, and Miraak might have been listening. “He’s...tall.”   
“Apparently Atmorans were all pretty tall,” she shrugged, watching Hadvar’s gaze widen. “I met one who was even taller than Miraak is. A couple, actually.”   
“ _ Miraak, _ ” the Imperial tested the name quietly on his lips, whispering it to himself again. “Miraak. What an interesting name.”   
She smiled fondly across the courtyard. “Isn’t it?”    
  
After a moment of standing in silence together, Hadvar sighed and reached out to grasp her shoulder lightly.   
“Well, thank you for coming to visit, Dragonborn. I’m glad you got to see Helgen rebuilt,” he smiled proudly at the town. “I believe the poets would say it’s all come full circle now, yes?” Tharya threw her head back to laugh, earning the attention of Ansa and her gaggle of children as they passed.   
“Something like that. Take care, Hadvar. With luck we’ll be seeing more of each other in the future.”

The Riverwood family’s wagon rolled out of town just past noon, with Bhijirio sitting beside Lograld in the driver’s seat and Ansa huddling with the children in the back. Miraak gestured to Flindbrir’s saddle as she approached but she shook her head.   
“I think I want to walk a little?”   
“ _ Walk? _ ” He snorted. “Woman, your extremities will freeze within the hour.”   
“I mean, keeping up won’t be a problem,” she gestured to the wagon, “and I’m wearing two pairs of socks. If I get cold I’ll just come bother you.”   
“Of course,” he rolled his eyes as he hooked one foot in the stirrup. “Because that is all I am good for.” Despite the cold it  _ did _ feel nice to use her legs. The snow continued to fall but there was no wind, just the cold, thin air hanging around them. Soon enough a fine layer of white coated the landscape of Skyrim, making the hills and lowlands of Falkreath and Whiterun Hold glisten in the stark sunlight. As they descended from the foothills that Helgen was nestled into, the White River came sparkling into view as well. Once or twice bunnies or foxes darted across their path, exciting the children. She spotted a few elk watching them from the woods before bounding away.    
  
By early evening they were passing through the official border between Falkreath and Whiterun, and not an hour later were rumbling into the quiet hamlet of Riverwood. Alvor looked up at them as they passed through the gates and stood from his forge, hammer in hand.   
“Hail, Dragonborn!” He said proudly, announcing their arrival to the whole village. On the right Lucan Valerius’s shop door swung open and the namesake of said shop stepped out onto his porch, putting his fists on his hips.    
“Good to see you again, Dragonborn!”    
“Aha, Stormhand!” The call came from Ralof and Gerdur, standing together just by the inn.  _ Stormhand. _ No one had called her such in...years. Yet somehow she fancied it far more than  _ Throne-Breaker. _ “And Lograld! What are you doing with such a fine escort, man?” Now it seemed the entirety of Riverwood was watching them pass by, calling out and waving. Miraak watched as the object of their affections waved back and smiled brightly at everyone. For just a moment, he had the same feeling he had that night in Fort Dawnguard so long ago, watching her stand in front of the fire after rescuing Dexion from the vampires.  _ Perhaps she is the true Dragonborn. _ Just as he had that night in Fort Dawnguard, he shook that thought from his head. There was no ‘true’ Dragonborn anymore. Just the First and Last.

  
“Thank you so much for your help and patience, Dragonborn,” Lograld was saying, having hopped down off the wagon. They were stopped on the road that veered perpendicular to the one that led directly through town, between the inn and general merchant. “Our house is just up the street. You’re more than welcome to stay with us.”    
“Oh, no, thank you though. We won’t impose on you further.”  _ If anything,  _ **_they_ ** _ have been the ones imposing on  _ **_us_ ** , he thought to himself, unable to stop the roll of his eyes before it was already in motion. “We’ll stay at the inn for the night and then get a move on to Whiterun in the morning.”   
“Of course, Dragonborn. Thank you so much...” he trailed off into profuse thanks and expressions of gratitude. Bhijirio helped Ansa down from the wagon before trotting over to Miraak, his saddlebags over one shoulder.   
“She’s undoing the horses right now so we can bring them around the back of the inn, I’m pretty sure I saw a stable. By that time maybe he’ll be done groveling and we can get dinner,” the Khajiit patted his stomach. “I’m starving, so you must be ravenous.” Miraak gave a noncommittal hum in reply, swinging down from the saddle. Yes, he was famished, but he had learned to keep quiet about it.    
  


It took Lograld some convincing to finally let them free, but at long last Tharya brought the horses over to them and instructed both men to see them to the stables while she procured a room and a good meal from what she called  _ the Sleeping Giant. _ She spoke the inn’s name with an odd sense of nostalgia but also a hint of distaste. When she left, Runa was trailing at her heels, tail flicking in the snow. When Bhijirio and Miraak finally joined her, stamping snow off their boots in the doorway, she motioned them over to a table close to the fire. Runa had already claimed a spot and was hungrily devouring something set in a bowl for her, tail thumping against the stone floor wildly. As they sat, a pretty Imperial woman with a swan neck and dark eyes glided over to them, nearly stumbling as she laid eyes on Miraak.   
  
“You!” She said, peering at the First Dragonborn. He returned her stare, halfway through letting his hood down. “You must be the other one—the other Dragonborn, I mean.” Miraak’s lip twitched mildly, what would’ve been a teeth-baring growl on any other man. After a resigned sigh, he nodded. The Imperial woman clapped her hands to her chest. “Mara’s mercy!” Awe on her face slid away into slyness. “If I had known you were so handsome, I would’ve worn my good dress today. How  _ do _ you travel with him, Dragonborn?” She turned now to Tharya, who was trying her very best not to laugh at the exasperated look on her lover’s face.    
“Oh, um—Camilla,” she snorted, suppressing a giggle as a cough. “Camilla, this is Miraak. He is the First Dragonborn, like you heard. And this is my friend Bhijirio, he’s been traveling with us.” The woman named Camilla barely shot the Khajiit a glance; she was staring at Miraak, but now he was plainly ignoring her, going about the removal of his gloves.    
“Lovely to meet you,” Camilla said faintly.   
“Camilla, I have no idea what you have cooking, but could you bring some over for us?” Tharya snickered as the First Dragonborn dragged his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes. Out of anything Bhijirio had learned while traveling with them, it was that Miraak was never subtle unless he wanted to be. Which was close to never.   
“Of course, Dragonborn,” the Imperial replied, giving them something between a bow and a curtsy before gliding off.   
“I had no idea she bought the inn,” Tharya mumbled to herself as she pried off her mittens. Miraak mumbled something foreign to both of their ears and looked very close to letting his head fall onto the table.

  
“Whatever. We can forget Camilla,” Bhijirio snickered. “Let’s talk about something else. I’ve been wondering how the hell you got out of Cidhna Mine, Sunshine.”   
“Oh, we already got to that part,” Tharya replied after a moment. “You just weren’t there. Basically Madanach staged a rebellion and broke out via a tunnel that the prisoners had once dug that led straight into a Dwemer ruin underground. The guards thought no one else knew about it, but he did. While the guards were distracted by a cave-in, he rallied everyone and busted out and started fighting in the city.” She traced the rim of her mug slowly, saying each word with a cautiously low voice.   
“And the Silver-Bloods?” Miraak hummed. Bhijirio echoed the name questioningly.   
“They stole my journal and read it. Luckily I was able to destroy it but...yeah, the Silver-Bloods are dead.” The First Dragonborn fixed his gaze on her but she didn’t meet it. The Silver-Bloods may be dead, but who killed them? Herself or Madanach? “After that I went and stayed with the Blades for a bit to recover. Their numbers had grown, which I guess is good. And I actually...” finally she sat back in her chair and looked at Miraak. “Actually, I asked them about you. Well, not you specifically. I had got to wondering, if I was the  _ Last _ Dragonborn, had there been a  _ First _ Dragonborn?”   
Miraak took a long sip of his drink before shaking his head. “And what did the  _ Blades _ say?” He asked, flat amusement mixing in his voice.   
  
“Esbern told me you weren’t real.” She said with a full laugh. Miraak snorted in amusement, his lips curling into a grin. Bhijirio had no idea what was so funny about that but he waited quietly for her to go on. “He said Alessia had been the only First Dragonborn, but that there were whispers of an Atmoran man in the Merethic Era who had the ability to Shout and absorb souls. He also said he thought that was bullshit because Nords pass history orally and ‘I don’t trust oral histories, my dear.’ By Esbern’s own guess, the Atmoran Dragonborn was probably a Dragon Priest of high regard who had earned the title of dragon-friend or even dragon-brother, technically  _ Dovahkiin _ , but wasn’t actually  _ Dovahkiin.  _ Scholars may have found out about him and his title and misconstrued it as meaning Dragonborn when it was just an honorary thing.” She took a long sip of her mead before setting the tankard down. “Apparently it was a huge point of interest that both the First Dragonborn and Last Dragonborn were women. But the figure on Alduin’s Wall, that’s a man,” she made a vague gesture with her hands and Miraak nodded accordingly, but Bhijirio felt the conversation had surpassed him a long time ago. “So either the Akaviri were being sexist, or they knew about you.”

  
“The figure is most certainly a man, but I do not believe the Akaviri intended for it to have any special meaning,” the Atmoran replied, that rare glint in his eye that appeared whenever he launched into scholarly conversation shining brightly in the firelight. He leaned both elbows on the table and steepled his fingers against his lower lip. 

“Not many outside of the Cult knew of my power. To most, it was a dreadful spell I had concocted that allowed me to devour dragon souls or simply a myth, and not an inherent ability. The dragons, however, knew it for what it was.” He shrugged. “But they did not speak of it to Men. It is very unlikely that the Akaviri knew of me.”

Tharya put her chin atop her knuckles, gesturing with her free hand as she spoke. “Even so, the Skaal knew about you. A lot more than Esbern, actually. They even knew your name. And Esbern acknowledged the story of  _ The Guardian and The Traitor _ , even said that Solstheim had been split during a fight between two Dragon Priests. How is it the Skaal can know so much that the Blades don’t?” Miraak grinned.   
“Because the Blades do not trust oral histories,” he replied slyly. “ _ Nust los meyye fah nii. _ ”   
“ _ Kah meyye, _ ” Tharya muttered, shaking her head. After a moment of silence she looked at Bhijirio and smiled sympathetically at his clueless expression. “Oh, Bhiji. You’re allowed to stop us when we go off on rants like that,” she laughed.   
“No, no, I like listening,” the Khajiit waved her off. “I’m just here to hit things and look pretty, and I’m out of things to hit.” This time Miraak smiled too, however small it was, relaxing his posture to sit back in his seat, resting his hands on his thighs. “But anyway. You escape Cidhna Mine, stay with the Blades for a bit, and then what? Back to Windhelm, I assume?”   
  
Tharya nodded once, drumming her hands on the table. “Yep. Back to Windhelm.”

* * *

**Sundas, 7th of Sun’s Dusk**

_ “Here, Odahviing. This is good enough.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ She patted the ruby dragon’s neck and pointed down to a bend in the winding stone road that led to Windhelm. They were about three miles away from the city, but she didn’t want to risk it by getting any closer. Knight had been dutifully following their path below in the past two days, but now he was lagging a bit behind. She didn’t blame him. He was the one thing the Markarth guard hadn’t stolen or destroyed, besides her pin which Madanach had recovered for her, and her green ruana which she had found for sale in a marketplace stall and snatched it away before fleeing the city. The Blades had given her boots, old clothes, and a new journal; this one was bigger than the last, the paper a little thicker and leather a little darker, with a loop to hold a pencil on the spine.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ With a huff Odahviing landed on the snowy ground beside the road, but didn’t lower his head to let her down. _ _   
_ _ “You are certain,  _ mal dovah? _ So far from  _ faal hiim? _ ” _   
_ “It’s only a few miles,” she promised, though was dreading the walk herself. With old boots and rags for clothes, no food, no supplies, and a tired horse, the chances of her getting there in one piece grew lower and lower with each passing minute. _ _   
_ _ “But you are tired and  _ krent _. I will take you, little dragon.” _ _   
_ _ “No, you can’t,” she patted the nearest crimson scale lovingly. “I don’t want anyone to see you.” He shifted uneasily at that; it was a foreign concept for a dragon to want to remain hidden, to not display oneself proudly. But surely if Odahviing had endured four thousand years of doing just that, he could endure it this once. “Thank you though. I appreciate it.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ At long last he lowered his chin to the ground and she bit back a groan as she jumped down, worn boots planting through the icy snow. She found it hard to believe the Blades didn’t own a better pair of boots than these, one step away from tearing themselves a hole large enough to fit her entire foot through, but they would have to make the journey to Windhelm. _ _   
_ _ “Thank you,” she repeated, circling Odahviing on weary legs to hug his snout. He pressed into her with a hot sigh. _ _   
_ _ “You are shaking,  _ mal dovah. _ ” His voice was low and quiet.  _ _   
_ _ “My legs are asleep,” she tried to laugh. The dragon grumbled disapprovingly in the depths of his throat before moving aside to snake his neck and shoulders around her, ruffling his wings.  _ _   
_ _ “Allow me to bring you to  _ faal hiim _ , _ Dovahkiin, _ ” he tried again. “ _ Nii drun zu rahgron! _ To think of you wounded so, it brings anger and shame upon me.” Though the warmth emanating strongly from his neck was tempting, she stepped away from him, peering down the road. She’d have to wait for Knight to catch up. _ _   
_ _ “Come on now, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Go, before someone sees you.” She patted the bony arm of his wing and backtracked away to give him space to take off. “Go.”  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Dragons didn’t have much in the way of facial expressions but she was sure what she was seeing now was the equivalent of a frown, his brow bones prominently furrowed together and his eyes narrowed. _ _   
_ _ “As you command,  _ Dovahkiin.”

* * *

**Tirdas, 9th of Sun’s Dusk**

Two days. Two days she’d been in bed, sleeping long hours and waking only to eat. When she woke on the ninth, it was to the Jarl’s physician poking and prodding at her with one cold finger, prying her eyes open and angling her head into the sunlight to watch her pupils dilate.   
“Hey!” She yelped, shooting up into a sitting position, grasping for the blankets. “What the hell?”   
“You slept through your afternoon checkup,” he blinked at her curiously.   
“So?” She shuddered. “Just wake me up, man, don’t go...poking around a sleeping person.” She was tempted to tack on an accusatory  _ creep _ after that but held her tongue when she saw a familiar figure hidden away in the corner by the door. Her fingers tightened in the blanket as she swallowed to soothe her dry throat. 

  
“Well, I don’t know what you looked like before, but I think it’s safe to say you’ve lost quite a bit of weight. Wherever you were. We’ll have to monitor your diet carefully, and work our way back up regular foods.” He nodded at her before standing from the bed. “I’ll put a word in to the kitchen.” All Tharya had the strength to do was nod at him and mumble  _ thanks _ as he went to the door.   
“My lord,” he bowed to Ulfric who held the door open for him and nodded in return, watching him leave. He radiated disappointment as his eyes fell on her again, taking a few stalking steps towards the bed.

“Where have you been?” The words hit her full force like a winter breeze, cold and unforgiving. Was he truly upset with her? When she’d almost died in his service? “Your brother said such tasks would be within your area of expertise. Perhaps I should’ve taken his obvious bias into account.” It was all she could do to stare at him, mouth hanging open to speak but no words coming out.  _ He...he’s upset with me. _   
“I was doing your work in Markarth—there are Thalmor in Markarth,” she blurted out, shaking her head. “A crazy bastard named Ondolemar is head of the Justiciars there. He threw me in Cidhna Mine.”

Ulfric nodded slowly but not in understanding. “I remember it. However,” he turned to stand at the window, peering out over the city. “If you had only done your  _ job _ , you would not have ended up there in the first place.” His voice dropped to a growl. “So it is  _ your fault _ , Dragonborn.”   
  
_ Your fault, Dragonborn. Your fault, Stormcloak. Your fault, Tharya. _   
  
How...how could it be her fault? How was wanting to help someone make their home better  _ her fault? _ How was wanting to worship her gods  _ her fault? _ How was hating the people who had killed the Gildergreen and ravaged her city  _ her fault? _ How could any of this mess be  _ her fault? _

“I apologize, my lord,” she said tightly, but truthfully her body was too tired to conjure up the necessary anger to bicker with him. Ulfric probably wouldn’t even hear it, anyway. He had a habit of talking  _ through _ people, not just over them. Completely ignoring someone’s words and continuing as if nothing had happened.   
“Apologies are not enough, or did you not hear me the day we met?” He snapped. “The day that words are enough will-”   
“Be the day you  _ retire _ , I heard,” Tharya interrupted, watching shock dance openly across his face. Ulfric stared indignantly at her for a long moment before he stepped towards the bed, his shoulders moving as if he was ready to strike. On instinct she shrank back, almost raising her arms to assume a defensive position, but he didn’t advance further.    
“There are plans in motion to retake Whiterun. Falkreath has now fallen under our control,” Ulfric went on smoothly, as if she hadn’t said a thing. “I have already sent two agents to Markarth to do what you failed to do.”   
“My lord, I hardly believe you’re treating me fairly-”   
“Enough!” He bellowed into her face, jaw twitching with irritation. “I was  _ assured _ these missions would be within your power.”   
“They are!” She yelled back, curling both fists into the blanket.  _ Gods, I can’t be useless. I can’t. I can do this. I have to. _ “They are well within my power, my lord. I swear to you-”   
  
He grunted. “Are you quite done with your little tantrum, Dragonborn?”  _ Tantrum. _ That’s all he thought it was. A little  _ tantrum. _ Too much  _ female emotion. _ She met his eyes and thought:  _ Some day I’ll Shout you apart like you did Torygg.  _ “Your next objective is in Dragon Bridge. We’ve intercepted two Imperial couriers and are sending two of our own out with revised orders. You are to deliver them to the captain of the Imperial garrison there.” An immediate response flooded her head:  _ Are you fucking stupid? Dragon Bridge? You realize that’s behind enemy lines, right? You haven’t even sent a damn patrol close to Haafingar yet. _ Carefully she reconstructed it into something more polite, less likely to get her thwacked.   
“My lord,” Tharya said in a steady voice, “Dragon Bridge is too close to Solitude for us to work there just yet. We should be taking territory incrementally-”

“Very well. Rorikstead.” His brow twitched angrily. “As Dragon Bridge seems to be  _ above _ your caliber. The missions are paralleled, dependent on each other. I will switch your route with the other messenger’s, so try not to fail.” The last words came out nearly as a sneer, but Ulfric Stormcloak was too  _ good  _ and  _ honorable _ to mock someone like that. No, he would shout his disappointment right into your face. She wilted against the pillow and nodded. Rorikstead.   
“When am I to leave?”   
“Whenever you are able to ride,” he said flatly. “If the snows allow.”   
“Yes, my lord.”   
Ulfric sighed as if scolding a petulant child, shaking his head. “And do not bother returning here if you compromise the mission,  _ again _ , in any way. Understood?”   
  
Raising her head now, Tharya looked directly at the Jarl of Windhelm, her eyes narrow and burning.   
  
“ _ Yes _ , my lord.”

  
**Loredas, 13th of Sun’s Dusk** **  
** **  
** **Fuck this, honestly.** **  
** **  
** **I’m so done with Ulfric’s bullshit, I can’t stand another day in this gods-damned palace. The doctor says I haven’t gained back a lot of weight but I don’t even care. I’m going to leave either tomorrow or the fifteenth, for Rorikstead. Supposedly the Stormcloaks are nearing Whiterun at this very moment, so by the time I pass through it should be under their control, and I’ll have no problem. And then maybe we can end this stupid war all the quicker.**

**Ulfric hasn’t been back to gloat, thank the gods, but Galmar has visited a few times, sneaking things from the kitchen. He’s much friendlier than the stuck up bitch he calls a Jarl, despite the fact I kind of hated him at first. I told him about Cidhna Mine—partially, I didn’t tell him about my journal, the Silver-Bloods, the Blades or that I was buddy-buddy with Madanach. (I do wonder about what Madanach is up to now that he’s broken out. Is he going to take over Markarth or flee back to the hills and gather the rest of the Forsworn?) He looked shocked. I think that earned the last bit of his respect, so maybe now he likes me? Whatever. I think I would rather have Ulfric than him, because Galmar is a soldier at heart and will do whatever Ulfric tells him to. If that means announcing the Dragonborn has joined the ‘legions of the faithful’, then he probably would do it without batting an eye.** **  
** **  
** **Knight’s been demoted from the palace stables to the one outside the city walls, which I can’t say I’m surprised about. Whenever I come back to Windhelm I doubt I’ll be in the same quarters, probably have to pay for a room at the inn. Or find myself at one of the army camps surrounding the city. That is, if I do end up coming back. I could just stop in Whiterun on my way to Rorikstead, or on the way back, and stay there. No one will notice, and certainly no one will care.** **  
** **  
** **But whatever.**

**Tomorrow morning I’m going back into the city to look for a new staff. I’m so pissed that mine is still in Markarth somewhere, either stolen or broken or on sale. Or in Thalmor hands. Not that it has secrets to it, hidden in the wood or something, but it’s a damn good staff that I made with my own two hands, and I’ve had it since I was nineteen. But I guess it’s gone for good now, so I’ll need one to stand in for a while. Hopefully when this is all done I can go back to the College and make a new one. Assuming they still see me as Arch-Mage, I can probably just write off my absence as Dragonborn business, which sucks. I should be better for them—but I never wanted to be Arch-Mage in the first place, did I? Did I ask for it? I didn’t.** **  
** **  
** **But for now none of that matters. What matters is the war, and Ulfric being an asshole, and getting these papers to Rorikstead. Whatever happens after that...I’ll just have to deal with it.**

**I wonder how Jorstus is doing.**

  
  


**27th of Sun’s Dusk**   
  


This time she approached Whiterun from the southern foothills of the mountain holding Bleak Falls Barrow; sneaking through Riverwood and taking the path up to the barrow, and making her way back down to the plains below as night fell. If the Imperials were still in the Hold or had defeated the Stormcloaks, it would be bad news to be captured by them.   
  
In the end, though, it didn’t matter in the slightest.   
  
New columns of smoke rose from within Whiterun’s worn walls, blocking out the sheet of bright stars hanging in the night sky above her. Some even wafted as high as the moons, tainting the air with a musty, burnt scent that mingled in her nostrils and made her throat dry. She could only hope the city was still whole, still intact. The houses and farms outside the walls didn’t look like they were houses and farms at all; blood matted the ground, crops were trampled and crushed everywhere, dirt riddled with footprints and errant weapons, shields. Bodies. The battlefield extended all the way to Whiterun’s drawbridge, and probably beyond even that. For a second time, war had come home.   
  
“Quickly, this way! Towards the mountain!”    
  
A voice somewhere in the darkness to her right startled her out of her trance. Tharya took Knight’s reins in one hand and lit a spell in the other, fingers curling around a bolt of lightning waiting to be discharged. Without her staff now, and no replacement, she felt defenseless, but no good mage relied on a staff to get their work done. Hell, she didn’t even really need a staff, it just helped to amplify and direct her magicka.    
“The mountain, Captain?”   
“Yes! There’s an old Nordic place up there, Bleak Falls Barrow. We can find shelter up there.”  _ Heading to Bleak Falls Barrow? _ Who could possibly be going up there, this late in the year? “I lived in its shadow for many years. Trust me, Lieutenant.”  _ I lived in its shadow for many years. _ Could it be...?   
  
Just as she was ready to call out to whoever was approaching a group of three men and two women burst through the darkness into the moonlight. Immediately she sent out her lightning and it struck the ground between the leader’s feet, stopping them all dead in their tracks. Their armor was Imperial.   
“Mercy!” The man at the forefront cried, throwing his hands up. “We have wounded. We were just trying to get them to safety.” Tharya lowered her hood slowly, peering at the Imperial captain, his armor splattered in dried blood and mud. Behind him two of the soldiers were holding a third between them, and the fourth was slung around the leader’s own shoulders. He stared at her in the moonlight before gasping quietly.

"You," he stepped forward. "You're the prisoner." The man squinted at her. "No, no, you're the-"

"Don't!" She hissed. "Don't say it. I know what I am. Apparently so do you. Hadvar."

"Well, I...I don't know your name, prisoner, but you seem to remember mine," Hadvar adjusted the other man around his broad shoulders and carefully lowered his hands. “You’re one of them?” He asked in an incredulous whisper. She looked around before inhaling deeply through her nose.

“No. I was just traveling home,” Tharya gestured to Whiterun. “When I saw the smoke I thought it best to stay back.”    
“Well, no need,” he snorted bitterly. “Stormcloaks took the city back. They’ll take it all back, at this rate. Drago-”   
“I can’t help you,” she cut in, holding up a hand before he could spoil everything. She flicked her hood back up. “But I won’t turn you in. Keep going towards the mountain; southeast from here you’ll find another path that will bring you up to Bleak Falls Barrow.” Hadvar opened his mouth to reply. “ _ Go. _ ”   
  
The Imperials hesitated for a moment before they hissed something to their captain and started trudging towards the base of the mountain. Only Hadvar lingered, staring at her for a long moment.   
“The Eight shelter you, Dragonborn,” he said softly, so softly the others couldn’t hear.   
“The Nine light your path,” she replied, gesturing to his comrades, “Captain.”


	24. XX. Tundra

**Tirdas, 30th of Sun’s Dusk**

**Snow. It’s been snowing for two days. Going on three. I’m surprised I was even able to leave Windhelm this late in the winter. What was I thinking? I guess war doesn’t stop for the seasons.**   
  
A shiver so violent it nearly threw the pencil out of her grasp made her shut her journal, tucking the pencil into the loop on the spine and drawing it close to her chest along with her knees. Even the fire did next to nothing to stop the chill. Tucked into a thicket well away from the road, with a patch of hard dirt to hold her campfire, darkness encroached on all sides. The days were cold and the nights were well below the freezing point. It was a wonder she hadn’t frozen to death yet.   
“How ‘bout you, buddy?” Tharya scooted closer to Knight, with a woven blanket that her mother Anari had made for him draped over his torso. He had folded his legs below him neatly to sit on the ground by the fire with her, but every once in a while a shudder jumped through his body too. Pulling her bedroll free from the saddle, which had been slung over a nearby tree branch to give the horse some reprieve, she unrolled it with a flick and quickly wiggled into it, shifting herself until she was flush against Knight’s side. “I know. We’ll make it,” she whispered, reaching out with frozen fingers to stroke his neck. “We have to.” _Do we really? If I died in my sleep tonight, would that be so bad? Sovngarde is waiting for me. Warm, welcoming Sovngarde. With featherbeds and thick blankets and roaring fires. Sovngarde._   
  
Shivering again under her thick coat and bedroll, Tharya clasped the journal close to her chest and pulled her hood well over her face, so the fur lining tickled her chin. With luck she hadn’t frozen solid in the past few nights, so maybe tonight would be the same. _What I wouldn’t give for a hug_ , she thought blandly. _A hug from Pops. He’s always warm._ Dreaming of her hearth and house in Whiterun and snuggled tightly against her horse, she fell into a frigid and restless sleep as more snow began to fall.

In the morning it was still falling from fat grey clouds that blocked out the sun. Not that the sun would’ve done much to warm the province; this deep in winter it only made the white unbearable to look at and hurt the eyes. Regardless the trudged on, returning to the road and going on past the brazen arrival of evening until the tall chimneys and flat farmhouses of Rorikstead were well in view. Crossing into the town always felt _different_ ; even now, the air here seemed less biting and almost _warm_ , and the snow lost its top layer so it didn’t cut into her shins with each step. But it wasn’t a good kind of different. Rorikstead had never felt like a good kind of different to her, had always made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on edge. She surveyed the farm to the immediate right of the gate and saw its winter crops were healthy and strong even despite the snow. In fact, all the farms surrounding this place seemed to be just as busy as they were during the spring and summer.   
  
“It’s not right,” she mumbled to Knight, keeping a close grip on his reins. He merely tossed his head in reply, bumping into her shoulder. Still, out of the entire town, the only place she didn’t feel this thick sense of dread was the inn, where Erik and Mralki were. The air hanging around the building seemed to be normal winter air, bitter and frigid in the lungs. How could the atmosphere of a place change from spot to spot, and so noticeably? So abruptly? _Maybe it’s that monument_ , she thought to herself, peering over her shoulder into the sunset to see the tall column of Gjukar’s Monument jutting into the sky. _But the magic there doesn’t feel the same as it does in the town._ She left Knight in the fenced-off yard in front of the Frostfruit Inn and then tramped up the steps, shoving the door open and closed behind her.   
  
A blast of hot air was the first thing she felt, so strong it made her fingers throb in her mittens. The entire place seemed to rattle as the door slammed shut, making the figure at the counter jump from where he was hunched by the oven.   
“Ah, Tharya!” Mralki called, waving one leathery hand at her. “Good to see you again, my girl.”   
“Tharya?” Another voice somewhere deeper in the inn echoed, floating up from downstairs. There was a crash and a loud curse as something broke, and after a moment Erik trudged up the stairs with a guilty frown on his face. He perked up the moment he caught sight of the Dragonborn, though, rushing towards her with his arms open. “Tharya! How are you? What in Shor’s name are you doing here this late in the season?” In the moment it took her to try and think of a valid response, Mralki chimed in.   
“Hush, boy,” he scolded, shaking his head. “The woman’s business is her own.” Erik’s frown very nearly resembled a pout, but he hugged her nonetheless. _What I wouldn’t give for a hug._ After a moment Tharya put her arms around him and sighed, letting the younger man absorb some of the cold lingering on her extremities.   
“Do you mind if I use the stables for Knight? I don’t want to leave him out in the cold,” she said as she pulled away. Erik nodded enthusiastically.   
“Of course. I’ll bring him ‘round back right now.”   
“Oh, I can do it-”   
“Nonsense!” He gave her a little nudge towards his father. “You look exhausted. Why not take a seat by the fire? You’re just in time for supper.” _Supper._ That did sound good. She’d taken enough food from Windhelm for the journey, but it was either frozen or too cold at night to cook.   
  
Rather than wait for a reply Erik made his way to the door, patting her shoulder as he passed. Tharya lingered for a moment before making her way to the counter and sliding onto a barstool with a heavy sigh.   
“Mead?”   
“Uh, no thank you,” she said. Even so, the waver in her voice was noticeable. _Just a drink. Just a bottle. It’ll help. It’ll feel good._   
“I got some Bloodwine left over?”   
“No, thanks.” She waved Mralki off. He watched her shrug off her pack and saddlebags before shaking his head.   
“Tea, then?”   
“That’d be nice.”

Erik and Mralki kept her company as they ate, Mralki putting plate after plate in front of her with increasingly concerned looks.  
“Have you been eating well, girl?” She stopped with the fork halfway to her mouth.   
“Traveling a lot,” came the reply, “and not a lot of time to eat.” That seemed to satisfy them both. Erik very nearly asked about the war, if she was fighting, but his father stopped him. They discussed it anyway, just not in regards to her. It seemed the news of the Stormcloaks in Whiterun hadn’t reached here yet, and likely it wouldn’t until it was too late. She considered telling them but didn’t, at least not yet. Once she was done with what she came here to do, maybe then. Erik cleared away plates while Mralki helped her carry her saddlebags to her room, on the east side of the inn. When he left she locked the door behind him, and barely managed to get her boots off before falling into bed.

* * *

By noon the next day she was standing in front of the Imperial outpost in Rorikstead, by the looks of it, an old farmhouse. Red banners lined by gold with jagged black dragons hung against the walls, frozen solid so not even the breeze disturbed them. Inhaling slowly, Tharya jostled her backpack where her whole reason for being here was hiding. It was hardly longer than her forearm and not much wider than her index and middle finger put together. Ulfric’s forged orders. She hadn’t read them. Maybe she was supposed to, but she couldn’t bring herself to, couldn’t bring herself to know exactly what she was sending these unassuming Imperials into. If not their imminent imprisonment, then surely their deaths.  
  
Climbing the stairs, she paused again just in front of the door. Before she could open it though, it swung open from the inside and a tall man strode out, adjusting a heavy crimson cloak around his shoulders. She saw a braid of rank denoting him as captain just before the cloak covered it.

The captain was an Altmer, tall and golden, with silvery hair that he kept in a neat braid that hung over one shoulder and down to his hip. Despite being a High Elf his features were hardly as sharp and jagged as she remembered Ondolemar and Ancano's faces to be; no, his cheekbones were high but smooth, his cheeks full, jaw soft. It was a striking contrast to the long points of his ears, but it made him appear infinitely more welcoming than Ondolemar or Ancano had ever looked. His eyes were a gleaming set of emeralds that glittered with a smile. She was struck silent for a moment, staring at him, until he cocked his head to the side and chuckled.  
“Soldier?”   
“Ah! Yes. Sorry. Sir.” She shook her head and found herself smiling at him. “Long trip.” To her surprise the Altmer let out a hearty laugh, resting one hand lightly on the hilt of his sword.   
“I’m not sure even I would want to go out this late in the winter,” he mused, looking around. “But you Nords seem to brave it all the same.” Tharya echoed his laugh.   
“We certainly try to.”   
“So, what brings you to Rorikstead, soldier?” He smiled kindly at her and watched as she unshouldered her backpack to extract the leather cylinder, striped with crimson ribbons, and handed it to him.   
  


Now came the hard part.  
  
“New orders,” she nodded to the cylinder. “Direct from Solitude. I’m not sure what they say, I was just given a horse and told to ride.” It was almost painful to lie to him; he looked honest and loyal. The aura he sent out was welcoming and kind, and he’d been nothing but polite to her, yet here she was lying blatantly to his face. _Putting him in danger._ The captain took them from her and unscrewed the cap, shaking the roll out into his hand. It was her turn to watch as he read, slowly, and multiple times. His thin eyebrows went up before settling back down and he rolled the paper, replacing it in the cylinder. He seemed to regard her for a moment before sighing.   
“Where are my manners? I haven’t introduced myself,” he shook his head. “Captain Aelius. And you are?” She blinked.   
“Oh, um, Tharya. Sir.” There was a quirky smile on his lips as he shook her head, repeating her name quietly.   
“That’s...quite a unique name. Strong but lyrical,” Aelius shrugged. “Sounds almost a little Imperial.”   
“My father is from Cyrodiil,” she replied. “I’m afraid I don’t know enough about Altmer names to return the compliment.” He laughed again—his attitude was so... _strange._ He seemed light-hearted. Happy. Easy to talk to. What was he doing in a mess of a war like this?   
“Well, Tharya. Can I interest you in some first class dining at the local eatery?” With a grin he gestured to the Frostfruit Inn across the road. “My treat, of course.” Again, she found herself chuckling with him. Someone who could still smile and crack jokes in the midst of a civil war was an altogether rare breed of being.   
“I’m not sure I’m dressed for the occasion,” she snorted back, and together they meandered over to the inn.   
  
If she thought Aelius was good initially, he crushed that assessment over lunch. Apparently he became even more talkative when he was sitting, his sword belt forgotten on the floor below his chair. At her own request he told her of the beauty in the Summerset Isles, of Alinor, of the grand cities. He described summers there with a poetic tongue and made their inn food seem bland as rocks in comparison to the wonders of Altmer dining. She was glad to watch his hands move and listen to his voice, a medium pitch that dropped when he was joking and rose when he got excited, yet flowed as naturally as a river in between. Tharya had no idea how long they sat there, exchanging stories; she was careful to keep most of them centered on her childhood or her years in Cheydinhal. Even so, Aelius hung on her every word attentively, nodding along as she spoke. He seemed ecstatic to learn she had attended college in Cyrodiil and even more interested in her extremely watered-down story of her exploration in Skuldafn.   
“A beheaded statue,” Aelius mused, stroking his smooth jaw thoughtfully. “How interesting. And nothing else was damaged?”   
“By my guess, I had been the first person there since whenever the place was abandoned, probably after the Dragon War.” His eyes glittered at that. “There were no signs of looters or thieves anywhere else.”   
“Wow.” The Altmer sat back in his chair, crossing his arms as he chewed his lip in thought. “That’s...truly amazing! You are quite the adventurer, Tharya.” He smiled as he said her name, sending a small shiver down to her gut. “I can see why the Empire wanted you. You work alone?”   
“More or less,” she shrugged. “It’s just easier and quicker to move that way.”   
“Gods. What I wouldn’t give to come with you.”   
  
It didn’t look like he realized the words had left his mouth until a moment after, when he felt her eyes on him, waiting for something else. The captain coughed into his fist and straightened in his seat. In the firelight she was almost sure there was a blush on his golden cheeks. _Why in Shor’s name is he blushing?_   
“Um...looks like we’ve been in here a while,” Aelius chortled, reaching under his seat for his sword. “How about a walk outside for some fresh air?”   
“That sounds great. The hill on the western side of town has great views of the sunset,” Tharya nodded enthusiastically and together they headed for the door.   
  
Despite the unsettled feeling Rorikstead gave her, it eased just a bit in Aelius’s presence. He made it uncomplicated to forget all her troubles, even if it was just for the duration of their walk to the western hill. The ground was too cold to sit on, and they could see more of the sunset standing, anyway. It crawled slowly towards the faint peaks of the Druadachs across the province, sending brilliant rays of gold and red and purple and magenta into the bland winter sky. As they watched it slide away, Aelius’s chatter died off, and after a while and some stolen glances out of the corner of her eye she could see he was staring at her. Maybe he was waiting for her to say something? Start a new conversation? _What else can I possibly talk about? Oh, by the way, I’m the Dragonborn. Isn’t that nifty?_ She let him stare a little more but unconsciously started wringing her hands through her gloves, pulling at her fingers until she was sure her knuckles were red with the strain. Finally, Tharya turned to look at him, raising one eyebrow.   
  
“What?” She laughed. “Is there something on my face?” Aelius jumped a little and quickly looked away, back to the sinking sun, before looking back.   
“No, I apologize, Tharya.” _He’s saying my name a lot._ “I...no, nevermind.”   
“Aw, come on. Life’s too short for secrets. Well, maybe mine is, but not yours.” The sound of their conjoined laughter reached high into the clouds of encroaching dusk. “I will bet you I’ve heard worse.”   
“I was just...” he fidgeted for a moment. “You look very beautiful in this light.”   
  
The words were so soft, a whisper, a waver.

She was stupid to not recover quicker; her silence made doubt flash heavily across his emerald eyes, and now she realized _she_ was staring at _him._ Aelius didn’t leave her gaze though. After a moment he wriggled one hand free of his glove and wiped it on his cloak before taking a hesitant step closer. He was a head taller than her, give or take. Carefully, softly, he reached up to brush the tips of his golden fingers against her cold cheek, touching the lines of her warpaint. Forgetting herself, she flinched hard.   
“Oh! I apologize! I didn’t mean to-”   
“No, it’s alright,” she cut him off gently. “It’s okay. I’m just...really unused to stuff like that.” A smile formed slowly on her lips. “But it’s okay. It’s nice.” Aelius waited before smiling kindly and nodding his understanding.

“That’s a peculiar scar,” he murmured, tracing his forefinger against the vertical line resting below her left eye. “Another few centimeters and it would’ve taken your eye.”  
“Yeah,” she hummed. “Luckily bandits aren’t always too good with swords.” The Altmer grinned. He fit his palm to her cheek, warm from being tucked inside his glove, and touched her jaw, her chin. It made her head swim almost dizzyingly, someone _touching_ her—suddenly and only for a moment she remembered her last thoughts before taking the torpor in Nightcaller Temple, when Celann grabbed her ankles. Was she really so ridiculous? Really so out of it? It wasn’t like he was doing anything besides touching her face. _Divines, you are_ **_really_ ** _lame, Tharya._ But his fingers felt so nice, as light as they were. It felt nice to be looked at, for once. Closing her eyes, she decided she could let herself be seen as a woman, for once. Instead of Dragonborn, legendary hero, Arch-Mage, anything else. She could let herself be seen.

  
In the darkness behind her eyelids she felt lips brush against hers, ever so carefully, before pulling them into a slow, warming kiss. The rest of the world seemed to slide away. The last slivers of light from the sun dipped below the mountains, bathing all of Rorikstead, all of Skyrim in brief pseudo-dusk before the bitter dark of winter sent in. It was a soft kiss, tender, careful, and she couldn’t remember how _gods-damned_ long it had been since someone had kissed her. The ceremonial “first kiss” had been something close to obligatory as she’d reached an age where it was becoming ridiculous that no one had kissed her yet, and she had determined that she would not let herself stay a virgin past age twenty-five. It had all been obligatory, then. And all worthless, she came to realize in the years since. Something she viewed as a task to get out of the way so she could be just that much less of a social outcast. Her path had carried her that way in the end, despite anything she tried to change.   
  
Quietly Aelius leaned back, his deep jade eyes still closed for a moment. Her head felt too busy for this, but for once she was set on brushing all those thoughts away to simply enjoy the moment. Pretty Altmer eyes opened to smile at her.

“Could I convince you to stay the night?” Aelius asked her, with an almost sheepish smile on his face. Gods, he couldn’t be much older than her. _Though elves live for a damn long time, don’t they?_ Oh, he could convince her. He practically already had. And as much as she wanted to...with a smile that felt more genuine than any other smile that had graced her face in the past few months, she nodded.

“I suppose you could, Captain.”

* * *

She didn’t realize how far off topic she’d veered until she realized Bhijirio was trying, and failing, to contain his snickers to himself, and Miraak was looking at her with a fatherly kind of pride.   
“Oh, damn,” Tharya mumbled, leaning her head into her hands. “Sorry. I got lost.”   
“No, no, I love it,” Bhijirio assured her. “He sounds hot.”   
“I would have done the same,” Miraak chortled to himself, earning a new bout of unrestrained laughter from the Khajiit. “Beautiful people are few and far between. Ones you can sleep with even rarer.” The Atmoran sipped his new mug of spiced wine as if it was the most casual comment in the universe.   
  
Tharya sighed and leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. Runa had moved to curl up closer to the fireplace, her chin on her paws and her eyes closed, tail flicking every so often. When she glanced out the windows, the Last Dragonborn saw that night had well and truly fallen on them. Fatigue brought on by warmth and a satisfying meal was beginning to seep into her bones, gluing her to the stiff wooden chair in the southeastern corner of the Sleeping Giant Inn. It was becoming evident in her companions too, as Miraak stretched his legs out parallel to the table and allowed himself a slouch in his posture, and Bhijirio planted his chin on his palm with a yawn.   
“So, you still gave him the fake orders?” The Khajiit asked after a moment, scratching at his ear.   
“Well...yes and no?” Tharya shrugged half-heartedly. “In the morning I stole back Ulfric’s orders and burned them. I left Aelius a note...explaining it all.” Miraak arched an intrigued eyebrow at that.   
“You told him you were a spy?”   
“More or less. He was a good person, alright? And I knew that if the Stormcloaks got their hands on an Altmer Imperial captain, and made him a prisoner of war, his life would be absolute hell,” she sighed. “The stories coming out of the Grey—the _Snow_ Quarter were bad enough. But on top of all the drunken hollering, the slurs, the blatant racism? I couldn’t subject him to that. I really hope he survived the war.” 

They fell quiet as Camilla Valerius returned to the table, masking a yawn behind one dainty hand.  
“Can I get you anything else, Dragonborn?” She asked, placing her fists on her hips. “More wine?”   
“Ah, no thanks, Camilla. We’ll probably go to bed soon.”   
“Very well,” she smiled at all of them, but lingered on Miraak, shifting her weight to one ankle and straightening her spine. “I’ll be around for a few more minutes before I retire. Good night, Dragonborn.” She nodded to Miraak, who barely noticed. “Dragonborn.” Without sparing Bhijirio a look Camilla strutted away, untying her apron. The bounty hunter glanced at her and then Miraak.   
“She seems to like you,” he muttered through a yawn.

The First Dragonborn rolled his eyes. “Am I supposed to be flattered?”  
“Damn, harsh.”   
“She referred to me as _the other one_ when we first entered,” he waved one gloved hand vaguely to the door. “I am not _the other one._ I am the First Dragonborn.”   
Tharya laughed, shaking her head at Bhijirio. “She’s not his type.”   
“You have a _type?_ I’m somehow surprised by that.”   
  
Miraak planted both hands on the table, ready to stand, shooting them both looks.   
“I do not have _a type._ ”   
“Hey hey, where are you off to?” The Nord reached out for his wrist. “I just have a little left, and then bedtime.” She smiled. “I haven’t even talked about the shitty way back to Windhelm. It snowed like no tomorrow.” After a moment of contemplation he sank back into his seat, slinging one leg across the other.   
“Is this when you had frostbite?” Tharya shook her head.   
“No, but close to it. The nights were the worst, though it snowed pretty much every day. Most of my food froze, and I didn’t bother stopping in Whiterun this time.”   
Bhijirio frowned at that, stroking his forearm thoughtfully. “What about your family?” After a sigh and a shrug, she went on.   
“I did write a letter for them and gave it to the Stormcloak postmaster. I assume it got to them. It took me fifteen or sixteen days to get back to Windhelm, I think I had just missed North Wind’s Prayer...but I couldn’t go back to the Palace of the Kings.”

* * *

The trek from Candlehearth Hall was longer than she remembered it being the first time she’d come to Windhelm. Gods, when had that even been? Last Seed. The tailend of summer. Three, four months since then? Now the ground was completely frozen, the ice fields up north were solidifying, and there was not an ounce of warmth to be found in Windhelm. The war had made the city dreary already, and the innkeeper at Candlehearth Hall, Elda, had talked Tharya’s ear off the night previous about a murder. One of the Shatter-Shields. She didn’t care to hear much of it, focused more intently on wolfing down as much warm food as possible and then restricting herself to one bottle of mead to wash it all down. Sated and more comfortable than she had been in a month, falling asleep had merely been a matter of hitting the pillow. Trickling celebrations brought about by North Wind’s Prayer still tittered on above her in the common room and in the streets of Windhelm, but none of them were brazen enough to wake her from her slumber.

The noon sun, however, was, pulling her out of bed and nudging her along towards getting dressed and leaving her room. She’d only paid Elda for a night, but it was probable she’d have to extend her stay. No doubt her room at the Palace of the Kings was no longer open to her; yet, that didn’t make her as disappointed as it perhaps should’ve. Her chances of running into Ulfric were beyond slim now. No chance of being blamed for things that weren’t her fault, no chance of being made to feel inferior. It was freeing.  
  
There was a small and distorted mirror hanging above the dresser in her room that caught her eye before she could pull her shirt on. Standing at this distance, it showed most of her torso and head, but the image reflected back was not the one she remembered. Unlike her sister Lilika, Tharya had never considered herself _filled out_ or particularly curvy. Lilika complained of envying her thinness, but this...this was unnatural. This was _too_ thin. This was the result of Cidhna Mine, of refusing to eat rotten bread and drink dirty water, the result of frozen saddlebags each night on her way home from Rorikstead, the result of no campfires in the frigid midst of winter hot enough to thaw even her frozen fingers and toes. For the first time she saw how distinctly her ribs pressed to her skin, like thin paper, and the blue of her veins in her forearms bright as day. For the first time she saw that even the little swell of her lower stomach was flattened to near obscurity.   
  
“Holy shit, my boobs are small.” In fact, _all_ of her had become small. She was one common cold away from frail. How could she have ended up like this? How in the names of all the Divines...had she become this? Her fatigue was permanent, and her body was not the body of a nearly thirty year old woman. _I have to do something about this. What can I do? The palace physician? Or just sleep and eat more?_ It wasn’t _horrible_ yet, but if she kept on like this it would be. 

Her mind was further crowded with these thoughts on her walk to the Palace of the Kings, shin-deep snow crunching underfoot. In some places it was more shallow but packed firmly by days of the city’s inhabitants trampling over it time and time again. Edna’s hearty breakfast, still sitting warmly in her belly, made her want to lie down and sleep some more, but she at least needed to get to Ulfric and tell him the Rorikstead mission was complete. _Because it is complete, for better or worse. In one way or another._ Her brain wandered to the image of Ulfric’s forged notes crackling in the fireplace of the Imperial outpost just on the outskirts of town, to Aelius still sleeping soundly in the dim, early morning glow. _One way or another._   
  
The guards at the doors let her in without asking her to state her business; her face was familiar enough to them by now. She stamped the snow off her boots and onto the stone floors as she traversed the length of the great hall to the throne. Ulfric wasn’t there. Servants skittered about, apparently cleaning up the remnants of another feast in honor of North Wind’s Prayer.   
“Excuse me,” she almost had to grab one woman who was hurrying by her to get her to stop. “Where’s Ulfric?” The servant blanched. “Sorry, sorry. Where’s...um, his...lordship?” Another man passing by made a face of blatant shock as he overhead.   
“ _The Jarl_ is in a war meeting,” she replied curtly. “He’ll have no disturbances.”   
“Alright, thank you.” Before the words had fully left her mouth the woman was already on her way. A war meeting? She could probably sit quietly in the background of that, right? Without Ulfric getting mad again? “It doesn’t matter,” Tharya mumbled to herself. _I have important news._ Her feet picked up again and brought her towards the war room, a chamber on the left wall of the hall. The lacquered black door was indistinguishable from the others like it spaced along the wall, but she knew it to be the last one before the corner.   
  
It swung open with a whisper, hardly enough to alert even a mouse. Only Yrsarald looked up from the table and, upon seeing her, sneered viciously in her direction before bowing his head once more. She couldn’t be certain which of the men was talking—interesting how Ulfric seemed to surround himself with only men—but waited quietly in the corner, away from the windows, her arms crossed to preserve heat under her ruana. The stone wall was frightfully cold. It was only a few more minutes until Ulfric noticed her over the heads of everyone else, holding her gaze for a beat before looking away.   
“Fort Hraggstad is not out of our reach, my lord,” someone said. “The Pale is assuredly ours. We can go through there and travel around Solitude on the northern shoreline completely unnoticed.” _That route sounds familiar_ , she joked bitterly to herself, wondering if Avulstein and the others had ever made it to Northwatch Keep. And if they did, if they had made the return trip to Whiterun in one piece. 

  
“I still say you’d be a fool to try and take Hraggstad. Our supply lines would give us away immediately,” another man put in, shrugging and shaking his coppery curls. “Dawnstar has been ours the whole time, but you’ve entrusted Old Skald to keeping his borders himself.”   
Ulfric straightened a bit, stroking his goatee thoughtfully. “What are you saying?”   
“Skald has pledged the most soldiers out of anyone. Frightening numbers, I say, from everywhere in his Hold. There’s no way his farthest borders can be well-protected.” The redhead shrugged again. “Dawnstar may be fortified, but who’s to say Imperial spies haven’t already slipped into the Hold, and can track our movements?”   
“Oh, don’t be such a coward, Gisler,” Yrsarald jeered, opening his mouth to say more when Ulfric held a hand up to silence him.   
“You’re all dismissed,” the Jarl said quietly, not taking his eyes off the map. Everyone shot their neighbor a look before they bowed as one to Ulfric and then filed towards the door. Not one of them glanced at her.   
  
Ulfric gestured her closer with one hand before planting both palms against the corner of the map lying atop the table, a detailed rendering of the province. Each Hold, city, river and mountain range was marked carefully, along with a few of the larger towns, and roads were thick, bold lines crisscrossing the paper.   
“What do you think, Dragonborn?” He asked as the door swung shut, tapping one finger against a point on the left side of the map. It was marked with an X, she saw, like a few other points scattered around the map. Most had circles around them. “Fort Hraggstad is here, on the northwestern shore.” It was all she could do to keep her mouth from falling open in shock. _All the way over there?_   
“I think anyone would be stupid to try that,” she blurted, and then pressed her lips together. “Sir.” He peered at her before leaning back, crossing his arms over his chest.   
“Pray tell, Dragonborn.” His voice was level enough but held an edge of ice to it.   
“It’s way too far,” she went on carefully. “That guy was right, your supply line would not only way you down but probably turn you into a target just as fast as you could blink. The possibility of Imperial spies, or at least small forces, in Dawnstar, is high. In my opinion. To think they wouldn’t send word ahead of a Stormcloak force moving towards Solitude is ridiculous. And...” her eyes shifted just below the X of Fort Hraggstad on the map.   
“And?”   
“And there’s a Thalmor fort not far from there. Northwatch Keep.” Tharya reached out to tap the spot on the map. “Even if you did manage to take Fort Hraggstad, they would march down and snatch it right back. This shoreline is also mostly natural cliffs,” she dragged her finger along the edge of Haafingar. “So if you kept to the lower shore, you’d be spotted from a mile away. And if you didn’t want to do that, you’d have to travel through Haafingar Hold, which is...just a stupid thing to do, really.” The move as a whole was maybe good on paper, but in practice she was sure it would fail.   
  
Ulfric seemed to mull it over, circling the table slowly, his eyes trained on the map, before coming to stand at her side.   
“Would you go on this mission if I asked, Dragonborn?” She felt her back tighten. A trick question. It had to be. _So for once, Tharya, stop and think before you say something dumb._   
“I...would go if you commanded me to go, my lord,” she said slowly, speaking each word deliberately. Something twinkled in Ulfric’s hard eyes. “But I don’t believe I would come out alive. Neither would anyone else you send.”   
“So you would choose your life over our cause.”   
“No, sir, that’s not what I said.”   
“If you believed the mission forfeit, would you turn away and run?”   
“I don’t-”   
“Would you _abandon_ your comrades, your country, _Dragonborn?_ ” He hissed the title now like the sourest of poisons, his brow twitching. He reeked of such anger that she took an unconscious step back. What had made him so furious? So intent?   
  
“No, sir,” Tharya replied in a whisper, only for Ulfric to laugh in her face.   
“You say that only because it is what I wish to hear,” he muttered, turning his gaze back to the map. “So you stand with Galmar. You would not have me try for Hraggstad.”   
“No, sir,” she repeated, eyes locked on her boots.   
“I assume the Rorikstead mission is complete, if you have come back here?”   
“Yes.” One hard glance. “Sir.” The Jarl of Windhelm lifted away from the table, and the scent of anger wafted away with him. Suppressed anger, he was stifling it within himself. It made her nose tingle uncertainly, the hair on her arms stand straight. Like it would just before an attack. She knew Ulfric wouldn’t attack her but...this animosity, where had it come from?   
  
“We must find a way into Haafingar somehow,” he said finally, stilling his feet in front of the narrow windows that looked out over the city and mountainside. “Very well. I will delay Fort Hraggstad until we secure another foothold in the region.” Tharya almost sighed in relief. “But do not think I am doing it for your petty little fears, Dragonborn. Death is the greatest sacrifice one may give to their country.”   
She jumped a little, swallowing before replying: “I wouldn’t assume you were doing anything for me, my lord.” Ulfric’s lips curled into a cruel grin.   
“Of course not.” A heavy silence hung in the room until he sighed and clasped both hands behind his back. “Have you heard of the Shatter-Shield murder?”   
“What? Oh, um...yes. Horrible thing. Do you know who did it?”   
“No, but I suspect,” he replied in an airy voice, as if bored of the topic already. “Those grey-skins have always looked to prey on their betters in this city.”   
  
The words were spoken so casually she was stuck to the floor in shock for a long moment, gaping at Ulfric’s back. _Those grey-skins have always looked to prey on their betters in this city._ He was speaking of the Dunmer? How could _they_ possibly be the predators of this place? How could they be the first suspects when she’d heard plenty of drunken Nord carousing in the streets of the Grey Quarter at night, damning all elves as spies, as lowlifes?   
“We’ll conduct a thorough search of the Grey Quarter soon and bring someone to justice,” he hummed. In her surprise Tharya had realized she’d remained completely silent.   
“That’s a horrible thing to say,” she spoke quickly but loudly, fists curling in. “You can’t suspect them just because they’re elves.”   
“Your next assignment is Fort Snowhawk. There’s a company of soldiers leaving soon who are to bring Morthal and that old hag Ingrod to heel. When they send word, Ralof’s company will move. If Hraggstad cannot be our way into Haafingar, Fort Snowhawk will have to be.” He turned to face her now, looking down the sharp line of his nose like the puffed-up lord he was. “So you must hold it until our army is gathered and we are ready to move on Solitude.” Her jaw too tight to speak, she only nodded. “Oh, and, Dragonborn,” he smiled, but it was a cold and unfeeling smile. “You’ve been promoted.”   
  
_Oh, Divines._   
  
“Since it will likely be some time til we meet again, you are no longer my operator, and you will no longer answer directly to me and Galmar.” Well, that may be a small relief. “Ralof has been upgraded to a commander, and he will head the company that takes Fort Snowhawk. You will be his second-in-command. Galmar told me you two work well together.” _Second-in-command?_ This was all wrong. It was too much, too fast. She couldn’t be second-in-command. She was just a soldier, a Stormcloak operator, in Ulfric’s own words. Now she was in charge of a whole fort? “Ralof requested you specifically for this. Normally I would not allow someone to leap ranks so quickly, but...for the Dragonborn, I presume your experience in battle has fashioned you nicely.” He watched her with the eyes of an appraiser before waving one hand lightly. “You are dismissed.”   
  
Trembling, Tharya waited for her knees to unlock before she started for the door on feet made of jelly. Second-in-command. What was her official rank, then? If Ralof was a commander, what did that make her? Why couldn’t she remain an operator? Ulfric wanted her out in the open, and she couldn’t argue with him. Though...she was the _Dragonborn._ She could do damn well whatever she pleased. A year ago she’d called Ulfric and Tullius to High Hrothgar to order a truce so she could travel the province freely and take care of saving the gods-damned world. _But you made yourself a soldier_ , she reminded harshly, _you put yourself under his boot willingly. Now he’s going to use you however he wants._   
  
“Lieutenant-Commander?”   
  
She was almost out the door when he spoke again, and a sudden rage bubbled up inside her. She wanted nothing more than to drive her fist into his jaw. This was insane. Ulfric didn’t act like this. There was a terrifying glaze over his eyes, the glaze of confusion, of the dead, that had not been there before; or perhaps she had never been observant enough to notice it. He was hardly the same man.   
“Yes, my lord?”   
“Remember this is my city,” Ulfric’s voice was more than cold this time, completely hostile and dangerous. “And I will do with its citizens whatever I please.”   
  
She grimaced.   
“Yes, my lord.”


End file.
